513 


OF    THE 


*f 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 


GIFT  OF 


WILLIAM  OILMAN  THOMPSON. 


BY   THE   SAME   AUTHOR, 


POEMS. 

2vols.     16mo.     $2.00. 


TICK3STOR  AND   FIELDS,   Publishers. 


POEMS  OF  THE  WAR 


BY 


GEORGE  H.  BOKER. 


BOSTON: 

TICKNOR    AND     FIELDS. 
1864. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1864,  by 

GEORGE     H.     BOKER, 
in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


UNIVERSITY   PRESS: 

WELCH,   BIGELOW,   AND  COMPANY, 

CAMBRIDGE. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 
INVOCATION 7 

POEMS    OF    THE   WAR. 

THE  RJDE  TO  CAMP  .  ;'  . .  ;  .  .  .  .  .  13 
UPON  THE  HILL  BEFORE  CENTREVILLE  .  .  .  .  .30 

ZAGONYI  .     • 48 

ON  BOARD  THE  CUMBERLAND    ...      ...       .      51 

THE  SWORD-BEARER 61 

THE  BALLAD  OF  NEW  ORLEANS  /  .  .  .  .66 
THE  VARUNA  .  .  '  .',.''  •  .  .  . »  .  80 
THE  CROSSING  AT  FREDERICKSBURG  .  .  .  .  .82 

HOOKER  's  ACROSS  ! 88 

ERIC,  THE  MINSTREL   ..       f       .....      90 

THE  BLACK  REGIMENT    .       . '     .       .       .       .       .          99 

BEFORE  VICKSBURG     ........    104 

THE  BATTLE  OF  LOOKOUT  MOUNTAIN    ....        107 

IN  THE  WILDERNESS    .        .        .        .        .        .        .  ^   .    116 

ODE  TO  AMERICA     .       .       . . 7      ...       120 

OREMUS 129 

AD  POETAS       .        .       .        .        .        .        .  .        133 

THE  FLAO .    136 


Vi  CONTENTS. 

DRAGOON'S  SONG 138 

LANCEK'S  SONG        .       .       . 140 

CAVALRY  SONG .       .       .  142 

MARCH  ALONG .       .  144 

THE  FREE  FLAG  .........  147 

SONG  FOR  THE  LOYAL  NATIONAL  LEAGUE    .       .       .  150 

A  BATTLE  HYMN 153 

HYMN  FOR  THE  FOURTH  OF  JULY,  1863       .       .       .  156 
SONNETS. 

"  BLOOD,  BLOOD  !  " .  160 

"On!  CRAVEN,  CRAVEN!"       .....  162 

"BRAVE  COMRADE,  ANSWER!" 164 

GRANT    .   .   . ..166 

DIRGE  FOR  A  SOLDIER        .       .              ...       .  168 

MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

PRINCE  ADEB 173 

AEON'S  CHARITY 186 

IDLENESS 191 

WINTER  WINDS        . 194 

ELISHA  KENT  KANE .       .196 

DIRGE                200 


INVOCATION. 

O  COUNTRY,  bleeding  from  the  heart, 
If  these  poor  songs  can  touch  thy  woe, 
And  draw  thee  but  awhile  apart 
From  sorrow's  bitter  overflow, 
Then  not  in  vain 
This  feeble  strain 
About  the  common  air  shall  blow. 

As  David  stood  by  prostrate  Saul, 

So  wait  I  at  thy  sacred  feet : 
I  reverently  raise  thy  pall, 
To  see  thy  mighty  bosom  beat. 
I  would  not  wrong 
Thy  grief  with  song  ; 
I  would  but  utter  what  is  meet. 


INVOCATION. 

Arise,  0  giant !     Lo,  the  day 

Flows  hither  from  the  gates  of  light. 
The  dreams,  that  struck  thee  with  dismay, 
Were  shadows  of  distempered  night. 
'T  is  just  to  mourn 
What  thou  hast  borne ; 
But  yet  the  future  has  its  right. 

A  glory,  greater  than  the  lot 

Foretold  by  prophets,  is  to  be  ; 
A  fame  without  the  odious  blot 
Upon  thy  title  to  be  free,  — 
The  jeer  of  foes, 
The  woe  of  woes, 
God's  curse  and  sorrow  over  thee. 

Above  the  nations  of  the  earth 
Erect  thee,  prouder  than  before  ! 

Consider  well  the  trial's  worth, 
And  let  the  passing  tempest  roar ! 


INVOCATION. 

It  spends  its  shock 
Upon  a  rock : 
Thou  shalt  outlive  a  thousand  more. 

Through  tears  and  blood  I  saw  a  gleam, 
Through  all  the  battle-smoke  it  shone  ; 
A  voice  I  heard  that  drowned  the  scream 
Of  widows  and  the  orphans'  moan  : 
An  awful  voice 
That  cried,  «  Rejoice  !  " 
A  light  outbreaking  from  God's  throne. 


POEMS  OF  THE  WAR. 


THE   RIDE   TO  CAMP. 


WHEN  all  the  leaves  were  red  or  brown, 
Or  golden  as  the  summer  sun, 

And  now  and  then  came  flickering  down 
Upon  the  grasses  hoar  and  dun, 

Through  which  the  first  faint  breath  of  frost 

Had  as  a  scorching  vapor  run  ; 
I  rode,  in  solemn  fancies  lost, 

To  join  my  troop,  whose  low  tents  shone 

Far  vanward  to  our  camping  host. 
Thus  as  I  slowly  journeyed  on, 

I  was  made  suddenly  aware 

That  I  no  longer  rode  alone. 


14  THE  RIDE   TO  CAMP. 

Whence  came  that  strange,  incongruous  pair  ? 
"Whether  to  make  their  presence  plain 
To  mortal  eyes,  from  earth  or  air 

The  essence  of  these  spirits  twain 
Had  clad  itself  in  human  guise, 
As  in  a  robe,  is  question  vain. 

I  hardly  dared  to  turn  my  eyes, 

So  faint  my  heart  beat ;  and  my  blood, 
Checked  and  bewildered  with  surprise, 

Within  its  aching  channels  stood, 
And  all  the  soldier  in  my  heart 
Scarce  mustered  common  hardihood. 

But  as  I  paused,  with  lips  apart, 
Strong  shame,  as  with  a  sturdy  arm, 
Shook  me,  and  made  my  spirit  start, 

And  all  my  stagnant  life  grew  warm  ; 
Till  with  my  new-found  courage  wild, 
Out  of  my  mouth  there  burst  a  storm 

Of  song,  as  if  I  thus  beguiled 
My  way  with  careless  melody  : 
Whereat  the  silent  figures  smiled. 


THE  RIDE   TO   CAMP.  15 

Then  from  a  haughty,  asking  eye 

I  scanned  the  uninvited  pair, 

And  waited  sternly  for  reply. 
One  shape  was  more  than  mortal  fair ; 

He  seemed  embodied  out  of  light ; 

The  sunbeams  rippled  through  his  hair  ; 
His  cheeks  were  of  the  color  bright 

That  dyes  young  evening,  and  his  eyes 

Glowed  like  twin  planets,  that  to  sight 
Increase  in  lustre  and  in  size, 

The  more  intent  and  long  our  gaze. 

Full  on  the  future's  pain  and  prize, 
Half  seen  through  hanging  cloud  and  haze, 

His  steady,  far  and  yearning  look 

Blazed  forth  beneath  his  crown  of  bays. 
His  radiant  vesture,  as  it  shook, 

Dripped  with  great  drops  of  golden  dew ; 

And  at  each  step  his  white  steed  took, 
The  sparks  beneath  his  hoof-prints  flew ; 

As  if  a  half-cooled  lava  flogd 

He  trod,  each  firm  step  breaking  through. 


16  THE  RIDE   TO  CAMP. 

This  figure  seemed  so  wholly  good, 
That  as  a  moth  which  reels  in  light, 
Unknown  till  then,  nor  understood, 

My  dazzled  soul  swam  ;  and  I  might 

Have  swooned,  and  in  that  presence  died, 
From  the  mere  splendor  of  the  sight, 

Had  not  his  lips,  serene  with  pride 
And  cold,  cruel  purpose,  made  me  swerve 
From  aught  their  fierce  curl  might  deride. 

A  clarion  of  a  single  curve 

Hung  at  his  side  by  slender  bands ; 
And  when  he  blew,  with  faintest  nerve, 

Life  burst  throughout  those  lonely  lands ; 
Graves  yawned  to  hear,  Time  stood  aghast, 
The  whole  world  rose  and  clapped  its  hands. 

Then  on  the  other  shape  I  cast 
My  eyes.     I  know  not  how  or  why 
He  held  my  spell-bound  vision  fast. 

Instinctive  terror  bade  me  fly, 

But  curious  winder  checked  my  will. 
The  mysteries  of  his  awful  eye, 


THE  RIDE   TO  CAMP.  17 

So  dull,  so  deep,  so  dark,  so  chill, 

And  the  calm  pity  of  his  brow 

And  massive  features  hard  and  still, 
Lovely  but  threatening,  and  the  bow 

Of  his  sad  neck,  as  if  he  told 

Earth's  graves  and  sorrows  as  they  grow, 
Cast  me  in  musings  manifold 

Before  his  pale,  unanswering  face. 

A  thousand  winters  might  have  rolled 
Above  his  head.    I  saw  no  trace 

Of  youth  or  age,  of  time  or  change, 

Upon  his  fixed  immortal  grace. 
A  smell  of  new-turned  mould,  a  strange, 

Dank,  earthen  odor  from  him  blew, 

Cold  as  the  icy  winds  that  range 
The  moving  hills  which  sailors  view 

Floating  around  the  Northern  Pole, 

With  horrors  to  the  shivering  crew. 
His  garments,  black  as  mine'd  coal, 

Cast  midnight  shadows  on  his  way  ; 

And  as  his  black  steed  spftly  stole, 


18  THE  RIDE   TO  CAMP. 

Cat-like  and  stealthy,  jocund  day 
Died  out  before  him,  and  the  grass, 
Then  sere  and  tawny,  turned  to  gray. 

The  hardy  flowers  that  will  not  pass 
For  the  shrewd  autumn's  chilling  rain, 
Closed  their  bright  eyelids,  and,  alas  ! 

No  summer  opened  them  again. 
The  strong  trees  shuddered  at  his  touch, 
And  shook  their  foliage  to  the  plain. 

A  sheaf  of  darts  was  in  his  clutch  ; 
And  wheresoe'er  he  turned  the  head 
Of  any  dart,  its  power  was  such 

That  nature  quailed  with  mortal  dread, 
And  crippling  pain  and  foul  disease 
For  sorrowing  leagues  around  him  spread. 

Whene'er  he  cast  o'er  lands  and  seas 
That  fatal  shaft,  there  rose  a  groan  ; 
And  borne  along  on  every  breeze 

Came  up  the  church-bell's  solemn  tone, 
And  cries  that  swept  o'er  open  graves, 
And  equal  sobs  from  cot  and  throne. 


THE  RIDE   TO   CAMP.  19 

Against  the  winds  she  tasks  and  braves, 
The  tall  ship  paused,  the  sailors  sighed, 
And  something  white  slid  in  the  waves. 

One  lamentation,  far  and  wide, 
Followed  behind  that  flying  dart. 
Things  soulless  and  immortal  died, 

As  if  they  filled  the  self-same  part ; 
The  flower,  the  girl,  the  oak,  the  man, 
Made  the  same  dust  from  pith  or  heart. 

Then  spoke  I,  calmly  as  one  can 

Who  with  his  purpose  curbs  his  fear, 
And  thus  to  both  my  question  ran. 

"  What  two  are  ye  who  cross  me  here, 
Upon  these  desolated  lands, 
Whose  open  fields  lie  waste  and  drear 

Beneath  the  tramplings  of  the  bands 
Which  two  great  armies  send  abroad, 
With  swords  and  torches  in  their  hands  ?  " 

To  which  the  bright  one,  as  a  god 
Who  slowly  speaks  the  words  of  fate, 
Towards  his  dark  comrade  gave  a  nod, 


20  THE  RIDE   TO   CAMP. 

And  answered  :  "  I  anticipate 

The  thought  that  is  your  own  reply. 
You  know  him  ;  or  the  fear  and  hate 

Upon  your  pallid  features  lie. 

Therefore  I  need  not  call  him  Death : 
But  answer,  soldier,  who  am  I  ?  " 

Thereat,  with  all  his  gathered  breath, 
He  blew  his  clarion ;  and  there  came, 
From  life  above  and  life  beneath, 

Pale  forms  of  vapor  and  of  flame, 
Dim  likenesses  of  men  who  rose 
Above  their  fellows  by  a  name. 

There  curved  the  Roman's  eagle  nose, 

The  Greek's  fair  brows,  the  Persian's  beard, 
The  Punic  plume,  the  Norman  bows  ; 

There  the  Crusader's  lance  was  reared  ; 
And  there,  in  formal  coat  and  vest, 
Stood  modern  chiefs ;  and  one  appeared, 

Whose  arms  were  folded  on  his  breast, 
And  his  round  forehead  bowed  in  thought, 
Who  shone  supreme  above  the  rest. 


THE  RIDE   TO   CAMP.  21 

Again  the  bright  one  quickly  caught 

His  words  up,  as  the  martial  line 

Before  my  e^es  dissolved  to  naught : 
u  Soldier,  these  heroes  all  are  mine  ; 

And  I  am  Glory  !  "    As  a  tomb 

That  groans  on  opening,  u  Say,  were  thine," 
Cried  the  dark  figure.     "  I  consume 

Thee  and  thy  splendors  utterly. 

More*names  have  faded  in  my  gloom 
Than  chronicles  or  poesy 

Have  kept  alive  for  babbling  earth 

To  boast  of  in  despite  of  me." 
The  other  cried,  in  scornful  mirth, 

"  Of  all  that  was  or  is  thou  curse, 

Thou  dost  o'errate  thy  frightful  worth  ! 
Between  the  cradle  and  the  hearse, 

What  one  of  mine  has  lived  unknown, 

Whether  through  triumph  or  reverse  ? 
For  them  the  regal  jewels  shone, 

For  them  the  battled  line  was  spread  ; 

Victorious  or  overthrown, 


22  THE  RIDE   TO  CAMP. 

My  splendor  on  their  path  was  shed. 
They  lived  their  life,  they  ruled  their  day : 
I  hold  no  commerce  with  the  dead. 

A 

Mistake  me  not,  and  falsely  say, 
'  Lo,  this  is  slow,  laborious  Fame, 
Who  cares  for  what  has  passed  away  : '  — 

My  twin-born  brother,  meek  and  tame, 
Who  troops  along  with  crippled  Time, 
And  shrinks  at  every  cry  of  shame,  ^ 

And  halts  at  every  stain  and  crime ; 

While  I,  through  tears  and  blood  and  guilt, 
Stride  on,  remorseless  and  sublime. 

War  with  his  offspring  as  thou  wilt ; 
Lay  thy  cold  lips  against  their  cheek. 
The  poison  or  the  dagger-hilt 

Is  what  my  desperate  children  seek. 
Their  dust  is  rubbish  en  the  hills  ; 
Beyond  the  grave  they  would  not  speak. 

Shall  man  surround  his  days  with  ills, 
And  live  as  if  his  only  care 
Were  how  to  die,  while  full  life  thrills 


THE  RIDE   TO   CAMP.  23 

His  bounding  blood  ?     To  plan  and  dare, 
To  use  life  is  life's  proper  end  : 
Let  death  come  when  it  will,  and  where  !  " 

"  You  prattle  on,  as  babes  that  spend 
*  r 


t 

Their  morning  half  within  the  brink 

Of  the  bright  heaven  from  which  they  wend  ; 
But  what  I  am,  you  dare  not  think. 

Thick,  brooding  shadow  round  me  lies  ; 

You  stare  till  terror  makes  you  wink.  ; 
I  go  not,  though  you  shut  your  eyes. 

Unclose  again  the  loathful  lid, 

And  lo,  I  sit  beneath  the  skies, 
As  Sphinx  beside  the  pyramid  !  " 

So  Death,  with  solemn  rise  and  fall 

Of  voice,  his  sombre  mind  undid. 
He  paused  ;  resuming  :  "  I  am  all  ; 

I  am  the  refuge  and  the  rest  ; 

The  heart  aches  not  beneath  my  pall. 

0  soldier,  thou  art  young,  unpressed 

« 
By  snarling  grief's  increasing  swarm  ; 

While  joy  is  dancing  in  thy  breast, 


24  THE  RIDE  TO  CAMP. 

Fly  from  the  future's  fated  harm  ; 

Kush  where  the  fronts  of  battle  meet, 

And  let  me  take  thee  on  my  arm !  " 
Said  Glory,  "  Warrior,  fear  deceit 

Where  Death  gives  counsel.    Run  thy  race ; 

Bring  the  world  cringing  to  thy  feet ! 
Surely  no  better  time  nor  place 

Than  this,  where  all  the  Nation  calls 

For  help ;  and  weakness  and  disgrace 
Lag  in  her  tents  and  council-halls  ; 

And  down  on  aching  heart  and  brain 

Blow  after  blow  unbroken  falls. 
Her  strength  flows  out  through  every  vein ; 

Mere  time  consumes  her  to  the  core  ; 

Her  stubborn  pride  becomes  her  bane. 
In  vain  she  names  her  children  o'er  ; 

They  fail  her  in  her  hour  of  need  ; 

She  mourns  at  desperation's  door. 
Be  thine  the  hand  to  do  the  deed, 

To  seize  the  sword,  to  mount  the  throne, 

And  wear  the  purple  as  thy  meed  ! 


THE  RIDE   TO  CAMP.  25 

No  heart  shall  grudge  it ;  not  a  groan 
Shall  shame  thee.     Ponder  what  it  were 
To  save  a  land  thus  twice  thy  own  !  " 

Use  gave  a  more  familiar  air 
To  my  companions  ;  and  I  spoke 
My  heart  out  to  the  ethereal  pair. 

"  When  in  her  wrath  the  nation  broke 
Her  easy  rest  of  love  and  peace, 
I  was  the  latest  who  awoke. 

I  sighed  at  passion's  mad  increase. 
I  strained  the  traitors  to  my  heart 
I  said, '  We  vex  them ;  let  us  cease.' 

I  would  not  play  the  common  part. 
Tamely  I  heard  the  Southerns'  brag : 
I  said,  <  Their  wrongs  have  made  them  smart.' 

At  length  they  struck  our  ancient  flag,  — 
Their  flag  as  ours,  the  traitors  damned  !  — 
And  braved  it  with  their  patchwork  rag. 

I  rose  when  other  men  had  calmed 
Their  anger  in  the  marching  throng  ; 
I  rose,  as  might  a  corpse  embalmed, 


26  THE  RIDE   TO   CAMP. 

Who  hears  God's  mandate,  <  Right  my  wrong ! ' 

I  rose  and  set  me  to  his  deed, 

With  his  great  Spirit  fixed  and  strong. 
I  swear  that  when  I  drew  this  sword, 

And  joined  the  ranks,  and  sought  the  strife, 

I  drew  it  in  thy  name,  0  Lord  ! 
I  drew  against  my  brother's  life, 

Even  as  Abraham  on  his  child 

Drew  slowly  forth  his  priestly  knife. 
No  thought  of  selfish  ends  defiled 

The  holy  fire  that  burned  in  me  ; 

No  gnawing  care  was  thus  beguiled. 
My  children  clustered  at  my  knee  ; 

Upon  my  braided  soldier's  coat 

My  wife  looked  —  ah,  so  wearily  !  — 
It  made  her  tender  blue  eyes  float. 

And  when  my  wheeling  rowels  rang, 

Or  on  the  floor  my  sabre  smote, 
The  sound  went  through  her  like  a  pang. 

I  saw  this  ;  and  the  days  to  come 

Forewarned  me  with  an  iron  clang, 


THE  RIDE   TO   CAMP.  27 

That  drowned  the  music  of  the  drum, 

That  made  the  rousing  bugle  faint, 

And  yet  I  sternly  left  my  home. 
Haply  to  fall  by  noisome  taint 

Of  foul  disease,  without  a  deed 

To  sound  in  rhyme,  or  shine  in  paint ; 
But  oh,  at  least,  to  drop  a  seed, 

Humble  but  faithful  to  the  last, 

Sown  by  my  Country  in  her  need  ! 
0  Death,  come  to  me,  slow  or  fast ; 

I  '11  do  my  duty  while  I  may. 

Though  sorrow  burdens  every  blast, 
And  want  and  hardship  on  me  lay 

Their  bony  gripes,  my  life  is  pledged, 

And  to  my  country  given  away  ! 
Nor  feel  I  any  hope,  new-fledged, 

Arise,  strong  Glory,  at  thy  voice. 

Our  sword  the  people's  will  has  edged, 
Our  rule  stands  on  the  people's  choice. 

This  land  would  mourn  beneath  a  crown, 

"Where  born  slaves  only  could  rejoice. 


28  THE  RIDE   TO  CAMP. 

How  should  the  Nation  keep  it  down  ? 
What  would  a  despot's  fortunes  be, 

After  his  days  of  strength  had  flown, 
Amidst  this  people,  proud  and  free, 

Whose  history  from  such  sources  run  ? 

The  thought  is  its  own  mockery. 
I  pity  the  audacious  one 

Who  may  ascend  that  thorny  throne, 

And  bide  a  single  setting  sun. 
Day  dies  ;  my  shadow's  length  has  grown  ; 

The  sun  is  sliding  down  the  West. 

That  trumpet  in  my  camp  was  blown. 
From  yonder  high  and  wooded  crest 

I  shall  behold  my  squadron's  camp, 

Prepared  to  sleep  its  guarded  rest 
In  the  low,  misty,  poisoned  damp 

That  wears  the  strength,  and  saps  the  heart, 

And  drains  the  surgeon's  watching  lamp. 
Hence,  phantoms !  in  God's  peace  depart ! 

I  was  not  fashioned  for  your  will : 

I  scorn  thy  trump,  and  brave  thy  dart !  " 


THE  RIDE   TO  CAMP.  29 

They  grinned  defiance,  lingering  still. 
"  I  charge  ye  quit  me,  in  His  name 
Who  bore  his  cross  against  the  hill !  — 

By  Him  who  died  a  death  of  shame, 
That  I  might  live,  and  ye  might  die,  — 
By  Christ  the  martyr  !  "     As  a  flame 

Leaps  sideways  when  the  wind  is  high, 
The  bright  one  bounded  from  my  side, 
At  that  dread  name,  without  reply. 

And  Death  drew  in  his  mantle  wide, 
And  shuddered,  and  grew  ghastly  pale, 
As  if  his  dart  had  pricked  his  side. 

There  came  a  breath,  a  lonely  wail, 
Out  of  the  silence  o'er  the  land  ; 
Whether  from  souls  of  bliss  or  bale, 

What  mortal  brain  may  understand  ? 
Only  I  marked  the  phantoms  went 
Closely  together,  hand  in  hand, 

As  if  upon  one  errand  bent. 


UPON    THE    HILL    BEFORE 
CENTREVILLE. 

JULY  21,  1861. 

I'LL  tell  you  what  I  heard  that  day  : 
I  heard  the  great  guns  far  away, 
Boom  after  boom.     Their  sullen  sound 
Shook  all  the  shuddering  air  around, 
And  shook,  ah  me  !  my  shrinking  ear, 
And  downward  shook  the  hanging  tear 
That,  in  despite  of  manhood's  pride, 
Rolled  o'er  my  face  a  scalding  tide. 
And  then  I  prayed.     0  God  !  I  prayed 
As  never  stricken  saint,  who  laid 
His  hot  cheek  to  the  holy  tomb 
Of  Jesus,  in  the  midnight  gloom. 


BEFORE  CENTREVILLE.  31 

"  What  saw  I  ?  "     Little.     Clouds  of  dust ; 
Great  files  of  men,  with  standards  thrust 
Against  their  course ;  dense  columns  crowned 
With  billowing  steel.    Then,  bound  on  bound, 
The  long  black  lines  of  cannon  poured 
Behind  the  horses,  streaked  and  gored 
With  sweaty  speed.     Anon  shot  by, 
Like  a  lone  meteor  of  the  sky, 
A  single  horseman  ;  and  he  shone 
His  bright  face  on  me,  and  was  gone. 
All  these,  with  rolling  drums,  with  cheers, 
With  songs  familiar  to  my  ears, 
Passed  under  the  far  hanging  cloud, 
And  vanished  ;  and  my  heart  was  proud ! 

For  mile  on  mile  the  line  of  war 
Extended  ;  and  a  steady  roar, 
As  of  some  distant  stormy  sea, 
On  the  south  wind  came  up  to  me. 
And  high  in  air,  and  over  all, 


32  UPON  THE  HILL 

Grew,  like  a  fog,  that  murky  pall, 
Beneath  whose  gloom  of  dusty  smoke 
The  cannon  flamed,  the  bomb-shell  broke, 
And  the  sharp  rattling  volley  rang, 
And  shrapnel  roared,  and  bullets  sang, 
And  fierce-eyed  men,  with  panting  breath, 
Toiled  onward  at  the  work  of  death. 

But  when  the  sun  had  passed  his  stand 
At  noon,  behold  !  on  every  hand 
The  dark  brown  vapor  backward  bore, 
And  fainter  came  the  dreadful  roar 
From  the  huge  sea  of  striving  men. 
Thus  spoke  my  rising  spirit  then  : 
"  Take  comfort  from  that  dying  sound, 
Faint  heart,  the  foe  is  giving  ground  !  " 
And  one,  who  taxed  his  horse's  powers, 
Flung  at  me,  "  Ho  !  the  day  is  ours !  " 
And  scoured  along.     So  swift  his  pace, 
I  took  no  memory  of  his  face. 


BEFORE   CENTREVILLE.  33 

Then  turned  I  once  again  to  Heaven ; 
,  All  things  appeared  so  just  and  even ; 
So  clearly  from  the  highest  Cause 
Traced  I  the  downward-working  laws,  — 
Those  moral  springs  made  evident 
In  the  grand,  triumph-crowned  event. 
So  half  I  shouted  and  half  sang, 
Like  Jephtha's  daughter,  to  the  clang 
Of  my  spread,  cymbal-striking  palms, 
Some  fragments  of  thanksgiving  psalms. 

j.      • 
Meanwhile  a  solemn  stillness  fell 

Upon  the  land.    O'er  hill  and  dell 
Failed  every  sound.     My  heart  stood  still, 
Waiting  before  some  coming  ill. 
The  silence  was  more  sad  and  dread, 
Under  that  canopy  of  lead, 
Than  the  wild  tumult  of  the  war 
That  raged  a  little  while  before. 
All  nature  in  the  work  of  death 

2*  c 


34  UPON  THE  HILL 

Paused  for  one  last,  despairing  breath ; 

And  cowering  to  the  earth,  I  drew 

From  her  strong  breast  my  strength  anew. 

When  I  arose,  I  wondering  saw 

Another  dusty  vapor  draw, 

From  the  far  right,  its  sluggish  way 

Towards  the  main  cloud,  that  frowning  lay 

Against  the  westward  sloping  sun  ; 

And  all  the  war  was  re-begun, 

Ere  this  fresh  marvel  of  my  sense 

Caught  from  my  mind  significance. 

And  then  —  why  ask  me  ?    Oh  !  my  God ! 

Would  I  had  lain  beneath  the  sod, 

A  patient  clod,  for  many  a  day, 

And  from  my  bones  and  mouldering  clay 

The  rank  field-grass  and  flowers  had  sprung, 

Ere  the  base  sight,  that  struck  and  stung 

My  very  soul,  confronted  me, 

Shamed  at  my  own  humanity. 


BEFORE   CENTREVILLE.  35 

0  happy  dead,  who  early  fell, 
Ye  have  no  wretched  tale  to  tell 
Of  causeless  fear  and  coward  flight, 
Of  victory  snatched  beneath  your  sight, 
Of  martial  strength  and  honor  lost, 
Of  mere  life  bought  at  any  cost, 
Of  the  deep,  lingering  mark  of  shame 
Forever  scorched  on  brow  and  name, 
That  no  new  deeds,  however  bright, 
Shall  banish  from  men's  loathful  sight ! 
Ye  perished  in  your  conscious  pride, 
Ere  this  vile  scandal  opened  wide 
A  wound  that  cannot  close  nor  heal ; 
Ye  perished  steel  to  levelled  steel, 
Stern  votaries  of  the  god  of  war, 

Filled  with  his  godhead  to  the  core  ! 
& 

Ye  died  to  live  ;  these  lived  to  die 
Beneath  the  scorn  of  every  eye  ! 
How  eloquent  your  voices  sound 
From  the  low  chambers  under  ground ! 


36  UPON  THE  HILL 

How  clear  each  separate  title  burns 
From  your  high-set  and  laurelled  urns  ! 
While  these,  who  walk  about  the  earth, 
Are  blushing  at  their  very  birth  ; 
And  though  they  talk,  and  go  and  come, 
Their  moving  lips  are  worse  than  dumb. 
Ye  sleep  beneath  the  valley's  dew, 
And  all  the  nation  mourns  for  you. 
So  sleep,  till  God  shall  wake  the  lands  ! 
For  angels,  armed  with  fiery  brands, 
Await  to  take  you  by  the  hands. 

The  right-hand  vapor  broader  grew ; 

It  rose,  and  joined  itself  unto 

The  main  cloud  with  a  sudden  dash. 

Loud  and  more  near  the  cannon's  crash 

Came  towards  me,  and  I  heard  a  sound 

As  if  all  hell  had  broken  bound,  — 

A  cry  of  agony  and  fear. 

Still  the  dark  vapor  rolled  more  near, 


BEFORE  CENTREVILLE.  37 

Till  at  my  very  feet  it  tost 

The  vanward  fragments  of  our  host. 

Can  man,  Thy  image,  sink  so  low, 

Thou  who  hast  bent  thy  tinted  bow 

Across  the  storm  and  raging  main,  — 

Whose  laws  both  loosen  and  restrain 

The  powers  of  earth,  —  without  whose  will 

No  sparrow's  little  life  is  still  ? 

Was  fear  of  hell,  or  want  of  faith, 

Or  the  brute's  common  dread  of  death, 

The  passion  that  began  a  chase 

Whose  goal  was  ruin  and  disgrace  ? 

What  tongue  the  fearful  sight  may  tell  ? 

What  horrid  nightmare  ever  fell 

Upon  the  restless  sleep  of  crime, 

What  history  of  another  time, 

What  dismal  vision,  darkly  seen 

By  the  stern-featured  Florentine, 

Can  give  a  hint  to  dimly  draw 

The  likeness  of  the  scene  I  saw  ? 


38  UPON  THE  HILL 

I  saw,  yet  saw  not.    In  that  sea, 
That  chaos  of  humanity, 
No  more  the  eye  could  catch  and  keep 
A  single  point,  than  on  the  deep 
The  eye  may  mark  a  single  wave 
Where  hurrying  myriads  leap  and  rave. 
Men  of  all  arms  and  all  costumes, 
Bare-headed,  decked  with  broken  plumes ; 
Soldiers  and  officers,  and  those 
Who  wore  but  civil-suited  clothes  ; 
On  foot  or  mounted,  —  some  bestrode 
Steeds  severed  from  their  harnessed  load ; 
Wild  mobs  of  white-topped  wagons,  cars 
Of  wounded,  red  with  bleeding  scars ; 
The  whole  grim  panoply  of  war 
Surged  on  me  with  a  deafening  roar  ! 
All  shades  of  fear,  disfiguring  man, 
Glared  through  their  faces'  brazen  tan. 
Not  one  a  moment  paused,  or  stood 
To  see  what  enemy  pursued. 


BEFORE  CENTREVILLE.  39 

With  shrieks  of  fear,  and  yells  of  pain, 

With  every  muscle  on  the  strain, 

Onward  the  struggling  masses  bore. 

0,  had  the  foemen  lain  before, 

They  'd  trampled  them  to  dusty  gore, 

And  swept  their  lines  and  batteries 

As  autumn  sweeps  the  windy  trees  ! 

Here  one  cast  forth  his  wounded  friend, 

And  with  his  sword  or  musket  end 

Urged  on  the  horses  ;  there  one  trod 

Upon  the  likeness  of  his  God 

As  if 't  were  dust ;  a  coward  here 

Grew  valiant  with  his  very  fear, 

And  struck  his  weaker  comrade  prone, 

And  struggled  to  the  front  alone. 

All  had  one  purpose,  one  sole  aim,  i 

That  mocked  the  decency  of  shame, 

To  fly,  by  any  means  to  fly  ; 

They  cared  not  how,  they  asked  not  why. 


40  UPON  THE  HILL 

I  found  a  voice.     My  burning  blood 
Flamed  up.     Upon  a  mound  I  stood  ; 
I  could  no  more  restrain  my  voice 
Than  could  the  prophet  of  God's  choice. 
"  Back,  howling  fugitives,"  I  cried, 
"  Back,  on  your  wretched  lives,  and  hide 
Your  shame  beneath  your  native  clay  ! 
Or  if  the  foe  affrights  you,  slay 
Your  baser  selves ;  and,  dying,  leave 
Your  children's  tearful  cheeks  to  grieve, 
Not  quail  and  blush,  when  you  shall  come, 
Alive,  to  their  degraded  home  ! 
Your  wives  will  look  askance  with  scorn  ; 
Your  boys,  and  infants  yet  unborn, 
Will  curse  you  to  God's  holy  face  ! 
Heaven  holds  no  pardon  in  its  grace  ' 
For  cowards.     0,  are  such  as  ye 
The  guardians  of  our  liberty  ? 
Back,  if  one  trace  of  manhood  still 
May  nerve  your  arm  and  brace  your  will ! 


BEFORE  CENTREVILLE.  41 

You  stain  your  country  in  the  eyes 

Of  Europe  and  her  monarchies  ! 

The  despots  laugh,  the  peoples  groan, 

Man's  cause  is  lost  and  overthrown  ! 

I  curse  you,  by  the  sacred  blood 

That  freely  poured  its  purple  flood 

Down  Bunker's    heights,  on    Monmouth's 

plain, 

From  Georgia  to  the  rocks  of  Maine  ! 
I  curse  you,  by  the  patriot  band 
Whose  bones  are  crumbling  in  the  land  ! 
By  those  who  saved  what  these  had  won  !  — 
In  the  high  name  of  Washington  !  " 

Then  I  remember  little  more. 

As  the  tide's  rising  waves,  that  pour 

Over  some  low  and  rounded  rock, 

The  coming  mass,  with  one  great  shock, 

Flowed  o'er  the  shelter  of  my  mound, 

And  raised  me  helpless  from  the  ground. 


42  UPON  THE  HILL 

As  the  huge  shouldering  billows  bear, 
Half  in  the  sea  and  half  in  air, 
A  swimmer  on  their  foaming  crest, 
So  the  foul  throng  beneath  me  pressed, 
Swept  me  along  with  curse  and  blow, 
And  flung  me  —  where,  I  ne'er  shall 
know. 

When  I  awoke,  a  steady  rain 
Made  rivulets  across  the  plain  ; 
And  it  was  dark,  —  0,  very  dark  ! 
I  was  so  stunned  as  scarce  to  mar*k 
The  ghostly  figures  of  the  trees, 
Or  hear  the  sobbing  of  the  breeze 
That  flung  the  wet  leaves  to  and  fro. 
Upon  me  lay  a  dismal  woe, 
A  boundless,  superhuman  grief, 
That  drew  no  promise  of  relief 
From  any  hope.     Then  I  arose, 
As  one  who  struggles  up  from  blows 


BEFORE   CENTREVILLE.  43 

By  unseen  hands  ;  and  as  I  stood 
Alone,  I  thought  that  God  was  good, 
To  hide,  in  clouds  and  driving  rain, 
Our  low  world  from  the  angel  train 
Whose  souls  filled  heroes  when  the  earth 
Was  worthy  of  their  noble  birth. 
By  that  dull  instinct  of  the  mind 
Which  leads  aright  the  helpless  blind, 
I  struggled  onward,  till  the  dawn 
Across  the  eastern  clouds  had  drawn 
A  narrow  line  of  watery  gray  ; 
And  full  before  my  vision  lay 
The  great  dome's  gaunt  and  naked  bones, 
Beneath  whose  crown  the  nation  thrones 
Her  queenly  person.     On  I  stole, 
With  hanging  head  and  abject  soul, 
Across  the  high  embattled  ridge, 
And  o'er  the  arches  of  the  bridge. 
So  freshly  pricked  my  sharp  disgrace, 
I  feared  to  meet  the  human  face. 


44  UPON  THE  HILL 

Skulking,  as  any  woman  might 
Who  'd  lost  her  virtue  in  the  night, 
And  sees  the  dreadful  glare  of  day 
Prepared  to  light  her  homeward  way, 
Alone,  heart-broken,  shamed,  undone, 
I  staggered  into  Washington  ! 

Since  then  long  sluggish  days  have  passed, 

And  on  the  wings  of  every  blast 

Have  come  the  distant  nations'  sneers 

To  tingle  in  our  blushing  ears. 

In  woe  and  ashes,  as  was  meet, 

We  wore  the  penitential  sheet. 

But  now  I  breathe  a  purer  air, 

And  from  the  depths  of  my  despair 

Awaken  to  a  cheering  morn, 

Just  breaking  through  the  night  forlorn, 

A  morn  of  hopeful  victory. 

Awake,  my  countrymen,  with  me  ! 

Redeem  the  honor  which  you  lost, 

With  any  blood,  at  any  cost ! 


BEFORE  CENTREVILLE.  45 

I  ask  not  how  the  war  began, 

Nor  how  the  quarrel  branched  and  ran 

To  this  dread  height.     The  wrong  or  right 

Stands  clear  before  God's  faultless  sight. 

I  only  feel  the  shameful  blow, 

I  only  see  the  scornful  foe, 

And  vengeance  burns  in  every  vein 

To  die,  or  wipe  away  the  stain. 

The  war-wise  hero  of  the  West, 

Wearing  his  glories  as  a  crest 

Of  trophies  gathered  in  your  sight, 

Is  arming  for  the  coming  fight. 

Full  well  his  wisdom  apprehends 

The  duty  and  its  mighty  ends  ; 

The  great  occasion  of  the  hour, 

That  never  lay  in  human  power 

Since  over  Yorktown's  tented  plain 

The  red  cross  fell,  nor  rose  again. 

My  humble  pledge  of  faith  I  lay, 

Dear  comrade  of  my  school-boy  day, 


46  UPON  THE  HILL 

Before  thee,  in  the  nation's  view  ; 
And  if  thy  prophet  prove  untrue, 
And  from  our  country's  grasp  be  thrown 
The  sceptre  and  the  starry  crown, 
And  thou  and  all  thy  marshalled  host 
Be  baffled,  and  in  ruin  lost,  — 
0,  let  me  not  outlive  the  blow 
That  seals  my  country's  overthrow ! 
And,  lest  this  woful  end  come  true, 
Men  of  the  North,  I  turn  to  you. 
Display  your  vaunted  flag  once  more, 
Southward  your  eager  columns  pour  ! 
Sound  trump  and  fife  and  rallying  drum  ; 

From  every  hill  and  valley  come  ! 

• 
Old  men,  yield  up  your  treasured  gold  ; 

Can  liberty  be  priced  and  sold  ? 

Fair  matrons,  maids,  and  tender  brides, 

Gird  weapons  to  your  lovers'  sides  ; 

And,  though  your  hearts  break  at  the  deed. 

Give  them  your  blessing  and  God-speed  ; 


BEFORE  CENTRE VILLE.  47 

Then  point  them  to  the  field  of  fame, 
With  words  like  those  of  Sparta's  dame  ! 
And  when  the  ranks  are  full  and  strong, 
And  the  whole  army  moves  along, 
A  vast  result  of  care  and  skill, 
Obedient  to  the  master  will ; 
And  your  young  hero  draws  the  sword, 
And  gives  the  last  commanding  word 
That  hurls  your  strength  upon  the  foe,  — 
0,  let  them  need  no  second  blow ! 
Strike,  as  your  fathers  struck  of  old, 
Through  summer's  heat  and  winter's  cold  ; 
Through  pain,  disaster,  and  defeat ; 

Through  marches  tracked  with  bloody  feet ; 

• 
Through  every  ill  that  could  befall 

The  holy  cause  that  bound  them  all ! 
Strike  as  they  struck  for  liberty  ! 
Strike  as  they  struck  to  make  you  free  ! 
Strike  for  the  crown  of  victory  ! 


ZAGONYI. 

SPRINGFIELD,  OCTOBER  25,  1861. 

Y)  OLD  Captain  of  the  Body-Guard, 
jL)     I  '11  troll  a  stave  to  thee  ! 
My  voice  is  somewhat  harsh  and  hard, 

And  rough  my  minstrelsy. 
I  've  cheered  until  my  throat  is  sore 
For  how  Dupont  at  Beaufort  £ore  ; 

Yet  here  's  a  cheer  for  thee  ! 

I  hear  thy  jingling  spurs  and  reins, 

Thy  sabre  at  thy  knee  ; 
The  blood  runs  lighter  through  my  veins, 

As  I  before  me  see 


ZAGONYL  49 

Thy  hundred  men  with  thrusts  and  blows 
Kide  down  a  thousand  stubborn  foes, 
The  foremost  led  by  thee. 

With  pistol  snap  and  rifle  crack  — 
Mere  salvos  fired  to  honor  thee  — 

Ye  plunge,  and  stamp,  and  shoot,  and  hack 
The  way  your  swords  make  free  ; 

Then  back  again,  —  the  path  is  wide 

This  time,  —  ye  gods !  it  was  a  ride, 
The  ride  they  took  with  thee  ! 

No  guardsman  of  the  whole  command 

Halts,  quails,  or  turns  to  flee  ; 
With  bloody  spur  and  steady  hand 

They  gallop  where  they  see 
Thy  daring  plume  stream  out  ahead 
O'er  flying,  wounded,  dying,  dead  ; 

They  can  but  follow  thee. 


50  ZAGONYL 

So,  Captain  of  the  Body-Guard, 

I  pledge  a  health  to  thee  ! 
I  hope  to  see  thy  shoulders  starred, 

My  Paladin  ;  and  we 
Shall  laugh  at  fortune  in  the  fray, 
Whene'er  you  lead  your  well-known  way 

To  death  or  victory  ! 


ON  BOARD  THE  CUMBERLAND. 

MARCH  8,  1862. 

TAND  to  your  guns,  men ! "  Morris  cried. 

Small  need  to  pass  the  word  ; 
Our  men  at  quarters  ranged  themselves 
Before  the  drum  was  heard. 

And  then  began  the  sailors'  jests  : 

"  What  thing  is  that,  I  say  ?  " 
"  A  long-shore  meeting-house  adrift 

Is  standing  down  the  bay  !  " 

A  frown  came  over  Morris'  face  ; 

The  strange,  dark  craft  he  knew ; 
"  That  is  the  iron  Merrimac, 

Manned  by  a  rebel  crew. 


52       ON  BOARD   THE  CUMBERLAND. 

"  So  shot  your  guns,  and  point  them  straight ; 

Before  this  day  goes  by, 
We  '11  try  of  what  her  metal  's  made." 

A  cheer  was  our  reply. 

"  Eemember,  boys,  this  flag  of  ours 

Has  seldom  left  its  place  ; 
And  where  it  falls,  the  deck  it  strikes 

Is  covered  with  disgrace. 

"  I  ask  but  this  ;  or  sink  or  swim, 

Or  live  or  nobly  die, 
My  last  sight  upon  earth  may  be 

To  see  that  ensign  fly  !  " 

Meanwhile  the  shapeless  iron  mass 

Came  moving  o'er  the  wave, 
As  gloomy  as  a  passing  hearse, 

As  silent  as  the  grave. 


ON  BOARD   THE   CUMBERLAND.       53 

Her  ports  were  closed  ;  from  stem  to  stern 

No  sign  of  life  appeared. 
We  wondered,  questioned,  strained  our  eyes, 

Joked,  —  everything  but  feared. 

She  reached  our  range.    Our  broadside  rang, 

Our  heavy  pivots  roared  ; 
And  shot  and  shell,  a  fire  of  hell, 

Against  her  sides  we  poured. 

God's  mercy  !  from  her  sloping  roof 

The  iron  tempest  glanced, 
As  hail  bounds  from  a  cottage  thatch, 

And  round  her  leaped  and  danced ; 

Or  when  against  her  dusky  hull 

We  struck  a  fair,  full  blow, 
The  mighty,  solid  iron  globes 

Were  crumbled  up  like  snow. 


54        ON  BOARD   THE   CUMBERLAND. 

On,  on,  with  fast  increasing  speed 

The  silent  monster  came, 
Though  all  our  starboard  battery 

Was  one  long  line  of  flame. 


She  heeded  not,  no  gun  she  fired, 
Straight  on  our  bow  she  bore  ; 

Through  riving  plank  and  crashing  frame 
Her  furious  way  she  tore. 

Alas  !  our  beautiful,  keen  bow, 

That  in  the  fiercest  blast 
So  gently  folded  back  the  seas, 

They  hardly  felt  we  passed  ! 

Alas  !  alas  !  my  Cumberland, 
That  ne'er  knew  grief  before, 

To  be  so  gored,  to  feel  so  deep 
The  tusk  of  that  sea-boar  ! 


ON  BOARD   THE  CUMBERLAND.        55 

Once  more  she  backward  drew  a  space, 

Once  more  our  side  she  rent ; 
Then,  in  the  wantonness  of  hate, 

Her  broadside  through  us  sent. 

The  dead  and  dying  round  us  lay, 

But  our  foemen  lay  abeam  ; 
Her  open  port-holes  maddened  us  ; 

We  fired  with  shout  and  scream. 


We  felt  our  vessel  settling  fast, 

We  knew  our  time  was  brief, 
"Ho!  man  the  pumps!"  But  they  who  worked, 

And  fought  not,  wept  with  grief. 

"  0  keep  us  but  an  hour  afloat ! 

0,  give  us  only  time 
To  mete  unto  yon  rebel  crew 

The  measure  of  their  crime  !  " 


56        ON  BOARD   THE  CUMBERLAND. 

From  captain  down  to  powder-boy 

No  hand  was  idle  then  ; 
Two  soldiers,  but  by  chance  aboard, 

Fought  on  like  sailor  men. 

And  when  a  gun's  crew  lost  a  hand, 
Some  bold  marine  stepped  out, 

And  jerked  his  braided  jacket  off, 
And  hauled  the  gun  about. 

Our  forward  magazine  was  drowned  ; 

And  up*  from  the  sick  bay 
Crawled  out  the  wounded,  red  with  blood, 

And  round  us  gasping  lay. 

Yes,  cheering,  calling  us  by  name, 
Struggling  with  failing  breath 

To  keep  their  shipmates  at  the  post 
Where  glory  strove  with  death. 


ON  BOARD   THE  CUMBERLAND.       57 

With  decks  afloat,  and  powder  gone, 

The  last  broadside  we  gave 
From  the  guns'  heated  iron  lips 

Burst  out  beneath  the  wave. 


So  sponges,  rammers,  and  handspikes  — 
As  men-of-war's-men  should  — 

We  placed  within  their  proper  racks, 
And  at  our  quarters  stood. 

"  Up  to  the  spar-deck  !  save  yourselves ! " 
Cried  Selfridge.     "  Up,  my  men ! 

God  grant  that  some  of  us  may  live 
To  fight  yon  ship  again  !  " 

We  turned,  —  we  did  not  like  to  go ; 

Yet  staying  seemed  but  vain, 
Knee-deep  in  water  ;  so  we  left ; 

Some  swore,  some  groaned  with  pain. 


58        ON  BOARD   THE   CUMBERLAND. 

We  reached  the  deck.    There  Randall  stood 
"  Another  turn,  men,  —  so  !  " 

Calmly  he  aimed  his  pivot  gun  : 
"  Now,  Tenny,  let  her  go  !  " 

It  did  our  sore  hearts  good  to  hear 

The  song  our  pivot  sang, 
As,  rushing  on  from  wave  to  wave, 

The  whirring  bomb-shell  sprang. 

Brave  Randall  leaped  upon  the  gun, 

And  waved  his  cap  in  sport ; 
"  Well  done  !  well  aimed  !  I  saw  that  shell 

Go  through  an  open  port." 

It  was  our  last,  our  deadliest  shot ; 

The  deck  was  overflown  ; 
The  poor  ship  staggered,  lurched  to  port, 

And  gave  a  living  groan. 


ON  BOARD  THE  CUMBERLAND.        59 

Down,  down,  as  headlong  through  the  waves 

Our  gallant  vessel  rushed, 
A  thousand  gurgling  watery  sounds 

Around  my  senses  gushed. 


Then  I  remember  little  more. 

One  look  to  heaven  I  gave, 
Where,  like  an  angel's  wing,  I  saw 

Our  spotless  ensign  wave. 

I  tried  to  cheer.     I  cannot  say 

Whether  I  swam  or  sank  ; 
A  blue  mist  closed  around  my  eyes, 

And  everything  was  blank. 

When  I  awoke,  a  soldier  lad, 

All  dripping  from  the  sea, 
With  two  great  tears  upon  his  cheeks, 

Was  bending  over  me. 


60        ON  BOARD   THE   CUMBERLAND. 

I  tried  to  speak.     He  understood 

The  wish  I  could  not  speak. 
He  turned  me.     There,  thank  God !  the  flag 

Still  fluttered  at  the  peak  ! 

And  there,  while  thread  shall  hang  to  thread, 

0  let  that  ensign  fly  ! 
The  noblest  constellation  set 

Against  our  northern  sky. 

A  sign  that  we  who  live  may  claim 

The  peerage  of  the  brave  ; 
A  monument,  that  needs  no  scroll, 

For  those  beneath  the  wave. 


THE    SWORD-BEARER. 

MARCH  8,  1862. 

BRAVE  Morris  saw  the  day  was  lost ; 
For  nothing  now  remained, 
On  the  wrecked  and  sinking  Cumberland, 
But  to  save  the  flag  unstained. 

So  he  swore  an  oath  in  the  sight  of  Heaven, 
If  he  kept  it  the  world  can  tell :  — 

"  Before  I  strike  to  a  rebel  flag, 
I  '11  sink  to  the  gates  of  hell ! 

"  Here,  take  my  sword ;  't  is  in  my  way  ; 

I  shall  trip  o'er  the  useless  steel ; 
For  I  '11  meet  the  lot  that  falls  to  all 

With  my  shoulder  at  the  wheel." 


62  THE  SWORD-BEARER. 

So  the  little  negro  took  the  sword  ; 

And  0  with  what  reverent  care, 
Following  his  master  step  by  step, 

He  bore  it  here  and  there  ! 


A  thought  had  crept  through  his  sluggish  brain, 

And  shone  in  his  dusky  face, 
That  somehow  —  he  could  not  tell  just  how  — 

'T  was  the  sword  of  his  trampled  race. 

And  as  Morris,  great  with  his  lion  heart, 
Rushed  onward,  from  gun  to  gun, 

The  little  negro  slid  after  him, 
Like  a  shadow  in  the  sun. 

But  something  of  pomp  and  of  curious  pride 

The  sable  creature  wore, 
Which  at  any  time  but  a  time  like  that 

Would  have  made  the  ship's  crew  roar. 


THE  SWORD-BEARER.  63 

Over  the  wounded,  dying,  and  dead, 

Like  an  usher  of  the  rod, 
The  black  page,  full  of  his  mighty  trust, 

With  dainty  caution  trod. 

No  heed  he  gave  to  the  flying  ball, 

No  heed  to  the  bursting  shell ; 
His  duty  was  something  more  than  life, 

And  he  strove  to  do  it  well. 


Down,  with  our  starry  flag  apeak, 

In  the  whirling  sea  we  sank, 
And  captain  and  crew  and  the  sword-bearer 

Were  washed  from  the  bloody  plank. 

They  picked  us  up  from  the  hungry  waves ;  - 
Alas !  not  all !  —  "  And  where, 

Where  is  the  faithful  negro  lad  ?  "  — 
"  Back  oars !  avast !  look  there  !  " 


64  THE  SWORD-BEARER. 

We  looked  ;  and,  as  Heaven  may  save  my  soul, 

I  pledge  you  a  sailor's  word, 
There,  fathoms  deep  in  the  sea,  he  lay, 

Still  grasping  his  master's  sword  ! 

We  drew  him  out ;  and  many  an  hour 
We  wrought  with  his  rigid  form, 

Ere  the  almost  smothered  spark  of  life 
By  slow  degrees  grew  warm. 

The  first  dull  glance  that  his  eyeballs  rolled 
Was  down  towards  his  shrunken  hand ; 

And  he  smiled,  and  closed  his  eyes  again 
As  they  fell  on  the  rescued  brand. 

And  no  one  touched  the  sacred  sword, 
Till  at  length,  when  Morris  came, 

The  little  negro  stretched  it  out, 
With  his  eager  eyes  aflame. 


THE   SWORD-BEARER.  65 

And  if  Morris  wrung  the  poor  boy's  hand, 
And  his  words  seemed  hard  to  speak, 

And  tears  ran  down  his  manly  cheeks, 
What  tongue  shall  call  him  weak  ? 


THE    BALLAD    OF    NEW    ORLEANS. 
APBIL  24,  1862. 

JUST  as  the  hour  was  darkest, 
Just  between  night  and  day, 
From  the  flag-ship  shone  the  signal, 
"  Get  the  squadrons  under  way." 

Not  a  sound  but  the  tramp  of  sailors, 
And  the  wheeling  capstan's  creak, 

Arose  from  the  busy  vessels 
As  the  anchors  came  apeak. 

The  men  worked  on  in  silence, 

With  never  a  shout  or  cheer, 
Till 't  was  whispered  from  bow  to  quarter, 

"  Start  forward  !  all  is  clear." 


THE  BALLAD  OF  NEW  ORLEANS.     67 

Then  groaned  the  ponderous  engine, 
Then  floundered  the  whirling  screw  ; 

And  as  ship  joined  ship,  the  comrades 
Their  lines  of  battle  drew. 


The  moon  through  the  fog  was  casting 

A  blur  of  lurid  light, 
As  the  captain's  latest  order 

Was  flashed  into  the  night. 

"  Steam  on  !  and  whatever  fortune 

May  follow  the  attack, 
Sink  with  your  bows  all  northward  : 

No  vessel  must  turn  back  !  " 

'T  was  hard  when  we  heard  that  order 
To  smother  a  rising  shout ; 

For  it  wakened  the  life  within  us, 
And  we  burned  to  give  it  out. 


68  THE  BALLAD  OF  NEW  ORLEANS. 

All  wrapped  in  the  foggy  darkness, 
Brave  Bailey  moved  ahead  ; 

And  stem  after  stern,  his  gunboats 
To  the  starboard  station  led. 


Next  Farragut's  stately  flag-ship 

To  port  her  head  inclined  ; 
And  midmost,  and  most  in  danger, 

Bell's  squadron  closed  behind. 

Ah  !  many  a  prayer  was  murmured 
For  the  homes  we  ne'er  might  see ; 

And  the  silence  and  night  grew  dreadful 
With  the  thought  of  what  must  be. 

For  many  a  tall,  stout  fellow 
Who  stood  at  his  quarters  then, 

In  the  damp  and  the  dismal  moonlight, 
Never  saw  the  sun  again. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  NEW  ORLEANS.     69 

Close  down  by  the  yellow  river 

In  their  oozy  graves  they  rot ; 
Strange  vines  and  strange  weeds  grow  o'er  them, 

And  their  far  homes  know  them  not. 


But  short  was  our  time  of  musing  ; 

For  the  rebel  forts  discerned 
That  the  whole  great  fleet  was  moving, 

And  their  batteries  on  us  turned. 

Then  Porter  burst  out  from  his  mortars, 

In  jets  of  fiery  spray, 
As  if  a  volcano  had  opened 

Where  his  leaf-clad  vessels  lay. 

Howling  and  screeching  and  whizzing 
The  bomb-shells  arched  on  high, 

And  then,  like  gigantic  meteors, 
Dropped  swiftly  from  the  sky. 


70     THE  BALLAD  OF  NEW  ORLEANS. 

Dropped  down  on  the  low,  doomed  fortress 

A  plague  of  iron  death, 
Shattering  earth  and  granite  to  atoms 

With  their  puffs  of  sulphurous  breath. 

The  whole  air  quaked  and  shuddered, 
As  the  huge  globes  rose  and  fell, 

And  the  blazing  shores  looked  awful 
As  the  open  gates  of  hell. 

Fort  Jackson  and  Fort  Saint  Philip, 
And  the  battery  on  the  right, 

By  this  time  were  flashing  and  thundering 
Out  into  the  murky  night. 

Through  the  hulks  and  the  cables,  sundered 

By  the  bold  Itasca's  crew, 
Went  Bailey  in  silence,  though  round  him 

The  shells  and  the  grape-shot  flew. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  NEW  ORLEANS.     71 

No  answer  he  made  to  their  welcome, 

Till  abeam  Saint  Philip  bore, 
Then,  0,  but  he  sent  them  a  greeting 

In  his  broadsides'  steady  roar ! 

Meanwhile,  the  old  man,  in  the  Hartford, 
Had  ranged  to  Fort  Jackson's  side  : 

What  a  sight !  he  slowed  his  engines 
Till  he  barely  stemmed  the  tide  ; 

Yes,  paused  in  that  deadly  tornado 
Of  case-shot  and  shell  and  ball, 

Not  a  cable's  length  from  the  fortress, 
And  he  lay  there,  wood  to  wall. 

Have  you  any  notion,  you  landsmen, 
Who  have  seen  a  field-fight  won, 

Of  canister,  grape-shot,  and  shrapnel 
Hurled  out  from  a  ten-inch  gun  ? 


72     THE  BALLAD   OF  NEW  ORLEANS. 

I  tell  you,  the  air  is  nigh  solid 
With  the  howling  iron  flight ; 

And  't  was  such  a  tempest  blew  o'er  us 
Where  the  Hartford  lay  that  night. 

Perched  aloft  in  the  forward  rigging, 
With  his  restless  eyes  aglow, 

Sat  Farragut,  shouting  his  orders 
To  the  men  who  fought  below. 

And  the  fort's  huge  faces  of  granite 
Were  splintered  and  rent  in  twain, 

And  the  masses  seemed  slowly  melting. 
Like  snow  in  a  torrid  rain. 

Now  quicker  and  quicker  we  fired, 
Till  between  us  and  the  foe 

A  torrent  of  blazing  vapor 
Was  leaping  to  and  fro ; 


THE  BALLAD  OF  NEW  ORLEANS.     73 

While  the  fort,  like  a  mighty  caldron, 
Was  boiling  with  flame  and  smoke, 

And  the  stone  flew  aloft  in  fragments, 
And  the  brick  into  powder  broke. 


So  thick  fell  the  clouds  o'er  the  river, 
You  hardly  could  see  your  hand ; 

When  we  heard,  from  the  fore-mast  rigging, 
Old  Farragut's  sharp  command  : 

"  Full  head  !  Steam  across  to  Saint  Philip  ! 

Starboard  battery,  mind  your  aim  ! 
Forecastle  there,  shift  your  pivots !    Now, 

Give  them  a  taste  of  the  same  !  " 

Saint  Philip  grew  faint  in  replying, 
Its  voice  of  thunder  was  drowned  ; 

"  But,  ha  !  what  is  this  ?    Back  the  engines  ! 
Back,  back,  the  ship  is  aground !  " 


74  THE  BALLAD  OF  NEW  ORLEANS. 

Straight  down  the  swift  current  came  sweeping 
A  raft,  spouting  sparks  and  flame ; 

Pushed  on  by  an  iron-clad  rebel, 
Under  our  pori>side  it  came. 

At  once  the  good  Hartford  was  blazing, 

Below,  aloft,  fore  and  aft. 
"  We  are  lost !  "    "  No,  no  ;  we  are  moving !  " 

Away  whirled  the  crackling  raft. 

The  fire  was  soon  quenched.    One  last  broadside 

We  gave  to  the  surly  fort ; 
For  above  us  the  rebel  gunboats 

Were  wheeling  like  devils  at  sport. 

And  into  our  vacant  station 

Had  glided  a  bulky  form  ; 
'T  was  Craven's  stout  Brooklyn,  demanding 

Her  share  of  the  furious  storm. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  NEW  ORLEANS.     75 

We  could  hear  the  shot  of  Saint  Philip 

King  on  her  armor  of  chain, 
And  the  crash  of  her  answering  broadside, 

Taking  and  giving  again. 

We  could  hear  the  low  growl  of  Craven, 
And  Lowry's  voice  clear  and  calm, 

While  they  swept  off  the  rebel  ramparts 
As  clean  as  your  open  palm. 

Then  ranging  close  under  our  quarter, 

Out  burst  from  the  smoky  fogs 
The  queen  of  the  waves,  the  Varuna, 

The  ship  of  bold  Charly  Boggs. 

He  waved  his  blue  cap  as  he  passed  us  ; 

The  blood  of  his  glorious  race, 
Of  Lawrence,  the  hero,  was  burning 

Once  more  in  a  living  face. 


76     THE  BALLAD  OF  NEW  ORLEANS. 

Eight  and  left  flashed  his  heavy  pieces, 
Rams,  gunboats  —  it  mattered  not ; 

Wherever  a  rebel  flag  floated 
Was  a  target  for  his  shot. 

All  burning  and  sinking  around  him 

Lay  five  of  the  foe  ;  but  he, 
The  victor,  seemed  doomed  with  the  vanquished. 

When  along  dashed  gallant  Lee. 

And  he  took  up  the  bloody  conflict, 

And  so  well  his  part  he  bore, 
That  the  river  ran  fire  behind  him, 

And  glimmered  from  shore  to  shore. 

But  while  powder  would  burn  in  a  cannon, 
Till  the  water  drowned  his  deck, 

Boggs  pounded  away  with  his  pivots 
From  his  slowly  settling  wreck. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  NEW  ORLEANS.     77 

I  think  our  great  captains  in  Heaven, 
As  they  looked  upon  those  deeds, 

Were  proud  of  the  flower  of  that  navy, 
Of  which  they  planted  the  seeds. 


Paul  Jones,  the  knight-errant  of  ocean, 

Decatur,  the  lord  of  the  seas, 
Hull,  Lawrence,  and  Bainbridge,  and  Biddle, 

And  Perry,  the  peer  of  all  these ! 

If  Porter  beheld  his  descendant, 
With  some  human  pride  on  his  lip, 

I  trust,  through  the  mercy  of  Heaven, 
His  soul  was  forgiven  that  slip. 

And  thou,  living  veteran,  Old  Ironsides, 

The  last  of  the  splendid  line, 
Thou  link  'twixt  the  old  and  new  glory, 

I  know  what  feelings  were  thine  ! 


78   THE  BALLAD  OF  NEW  ORLEANS. 

When  the  sun  looked  over  the  tree-tops, 
We  found  ourselves  —  Heaven  knows  how  — 

Above  the  grim  forts  ;  and  that  instant 
A  smoke  broke  from  Farragut's  bow. 

And  over  the  river  came  floating 

The  sound  of  the  morning  gun  ; 
And  the  stars  and  stripes  danced  up  the  halyards, 

And  glittered  against  the  sun. 

0,  then  what  a  shout  from  the  squadrons ! 

As  flag  followed  flag,  till  the  day 
Was  bright  with  the  beautiful  standard, 

And  wild  with  the  victors'  huzza  ! 


But  three  ships  were  missing.  The  others 
Had  passed  through  that  current  of  flame  ; 

And  each  scar  on  their  shattered  bulwarks 
Was  touched  by  the  finger  of  Fame. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  NEW  ORLEANS.     79 

Below  us,  the  forts  of  the  rebels 

Lay  in  the  trance  of  despair  ; 
Above  us,  uncovered  and  helpless, 

New  Orleans  clouded  the  air. 


Again,  in  long  lines  we  went  steaming 
Away  towards  the  city's  smoke ; 

And  works  were  deserted  before  us, 
And  columns  of  soldiers  broke. 

In  vain  the  town  clamored  and  struggled ; 

The  flag  at  our  peak  ruled  the  hour  ; 
And  under  its  shade,  like  a  lion, 

Were  resting  the  will  and  the  power. 


THE    VARUNA. 


SUNK   APEIL  24,    1862. 

WHO  has  not  heard  of  the  dauntless 
Varuna? 

Who  has  not  heard  of  the  deeds  she  has  done  ? 
Who  shall  not  hear,  while  the  brown  Mississippi 
Rushes  along  from  the  snow  to  the  sun  ? 

Crippled  and  leaking  she  entered  the  battle, 
Sinking  and  burning  she  fought  through  the 

fray, 
Crushed  were  her  sides,  and  the  waves  ran 

across  her, 

Ere,  like  a  death-wounded  lion  at  bay, 
Sternly  she  closed  in  the  last  fatal  grapple, 
Then  in  her  triumph  sank  grandly  away. 


THE   VARUNA.  81 

Five  of  the  rebels,  like  satellites  round  her, 
Burned  in  her  orbit  of  splendor  and  fear ; 

One,  like  the  Pleiad  of  mystical  story, 

Shot,  terror-stricken,  beyond  her  dread  sphere. 

We  who  are  waiting  with  crowns  for  the  victors, 
Though  we  should  offer  the  wealth  of  our 

store, 
Load  the  Varuna  from  deck  down  to  kelson, 

Still  would  be  niggard,  such  tribute  to  pour 
On  courage  so  boundless.   It  beggars  possession, 
It  knocks  for  just  payment  at  heaven's  bright 
door. 

Cherish  the  heroes  who  fought  the  Yaruna  ; 

Treat  them  as  kings  if  they  honor  your  way ; 
Succor  and  comfort  the  sick  and  the  wounded ; 

Oh  !  for  the  dead,  let  us  all  kneel  to  pray ! 


THE   CROSSING   AT    FREDER- 
ICKSBURG. 

DECEMBER  11,  1862. 

jrjivw-  trvC-  \&AUi  sJ-    W^MT 

I    LAY  in  my  tent  at  mid-day, 
Too  full  of  pain  to  die, 
When  I  heard  the  voice  of  Burnside, 
And  an  answering  shout  reply. 

I  heard  the  voice  of  the  General, — 
'T  was  firm,  though  low  and  sad  ; 

But  the  roar  that  followed  his  question 
Laughed  out  till  the  hills  were  glad. 

"  0  comrade,  open  the  curtain, 
And  see  where  our  men  are  bound, 

For  my  heart  is  still  in  my  bosom 
At  that  terrible,  mirthful  sound. 


CROSSING  AT  FREDERICKSBURG.      83 

"  And  hark  what  the  General  orders, 

For  I  could  not  catch  his  words ; 
And  what  means  that  hurry  and  movement, 

That  clash  of  muskets  and  swords  ?  " 


"  Lie  still,  lie  still,  my  Captain, 

'T  is  a  call  for  volunteers  ; 
And  the  noise  that  vexes  your  fever 

Is  only  our  soldiers'  cheers." 

"  Where  go  they  ?  "     "  Across  the  river." 

"  0  God  !  and  must  I  lie  still, 
While  that  drum  and  that  measured  trampling 

Move  from  me  far  down  the  hill  ? 

"  How  many  ?  "     "I  judge,  four  hundred." 
"  Who  are  they  ?    I  '11  know  to  a  man." 

"  Our  own  Nineteenth  and  Twentieth, 
And  the  Seventh  Michigan." 


84  THE  CROSSING 

"  0,  to  go,  but  to  go  with  my  comrades  ! 

Tear  the  curtain  away  from  the  hook  ; 
For  I  '11  see  them  march  down  to  their  glory, 

If  I  perish  by  the  look  !  " 

They  leaped  in  the  rocking  shallops. 

Ten  offered  where  one  could  go  ; 
And  the  breeze  was  alive  with  laughter 

Till  the  boatmen  began  to  row. 

Then  the  shore,  where  the  rebels  harbored, 
Was  fringed  with  a  gush  of  flame, 

And  buzzing,  like  bees,  o'er  the  water 
The  swarms  of  their  bullets  came. 

In  silence,  how  dread  and  solemn  ! 

With  courage,  how  grand  and  true  ! 
Steadily,  steadily  onward 

The  line  of  the  shallops  drew. 


AT  FREDERICKSBURG.  85 

Not  a  whisper  !     Each  man  was  conscious 
He  stood  in  the  sight  of  death  ; 

So  he  bowed  to  the  awful  presence, 
And  treasured  his  living  breath.  •* 


'Twixt  death  in  the  air  above  them, 
And  death  in  the  waves  below, 

Through  balls  and  grape  and  shrapnel 
They  moved  —  my  God,  how  slow  ! 

And  many  a  brave,  stout  fellow, 
Who  sprang  in  the  boats  with  mirth, 

Ere  they  made  that  fatal  crossing 
Was  a  load  of  lifeless  earth. 

And  many  a  brave,  stout  fellow, 

Whose  limbs  with  strength  were  rife, 

Was  torn  and  crushed  and  shattered,  — 
A  helpless  wreck  for  life. 


86  THE  CROSSING 

But  yet  the  boats  moved  onward  ; 

Through  fire  and  lead  they  drove, 
With  the  dark,  still  mass  within  them, 

And  the  floating  stars  above. 

So  loud  and  near  it  sounded, 

I  started  at  the  shout, 
As  the  keels  ground  on  the  gravel, 

And  the  eager  men  burst  out. 

Cheer  after  cheer  we  sent  them, 

As  only  armies  can,  — 
Cheers  for  old  Massachusetts, 

Cheers  for  young  Michigan  ! 

They  formed  in  line  of  battle  ; 

Not  a  man  was  out  of  place. 
Then  with  levelled  steel  they  hurled  them 

Straight  in  the  rebels'  face. 


AT  FREDERICKSBURG.  87 

"  0,  help  me,  help  me,  comrade  ! 

For  tears  my  eyelids  drown, 
As  I  see  their  starry  banners 

Stream  up  the  smoking  town. 


"  And  see  the  noisy  workmen 
O'er  the  lengthening  bridges  run, 

And  the  troops  that  swarm  to  cross  them 
When  the  rapid  work  be  done. 

"  For  the  old  heat,  or  a  new  one. 

Flames  up  in  every  vein  ; 
And  with  fever  or  with  passion 

T  am  faint  as  death  again. 

"  If  this  is  death,  I  care  not ! 

Hear  me,  men,  from  rear  to  van  !  — 
One  more  cheer  for  Massachusetts, 

And  one  more  for  Michigan  !  " 


HOOKER'S    ACROSS. 

MAT  1,  1863. 

HOOKER  's  across  !  Hooker  's  across  ! 
Standards  and  guidons  and  lance-pen 
nons  toss 

Over  the  land  where  he  points  with  his  blade, 
Bristle  the  hill-top,  and  fill  up  the  glade. 
Who  would  not  follow  a  leader  whose  blood 
Has  swelled,  like   our  own,  the  battle's  red 

flood? 
Who  bore  what  we  suffered,  our  wound  and 

our  pain, — 

Bore  them  with  patience,  and  dares  them  again  ? 
Hooker  's  across ! 


HOOKER'S  ACROSS  89 

Hooker  's  across  !  Hooker  's  across  ! 
River  of  death,  you  shall  make  up  our  loss ! 
Out  of  your  channel  we  summon  each  soul, 
Over  whose  body  your  dark  billows  roll ; 
Up  from  your  borders  we  summon  the  dead, 
From  valleys  and  hills  where  they  struggled 

and  bled, 

To  joy  in  the  vengeance  the  traitors  shall  feel 
At  the  roar  of  our  guns  and  the  rush  of  our 
steel ! 

Hooker  's  across ! 

• 

Hooker  's  across  !  Hooker  's  across ! 
Fears  to  the  wind,  with  our  standards,  we  toss, 
Moving  together,  straight  on,  with  one  breath, 
Down  to  the  outburst  of  passion  and  death. 
0,  in  the  depths  of  our  spirits  we  know 
If  we  fail  now  in  the  face  of  the  foe, 
Flee  from  the  field  with  our  flag  soiled  and  dim, 
We  may  return,  but 't  will  not  be  with  him  ! 
Hooker  's  across ! 


ERIC,    THE    MINSTREL. 

A    PARABLE. 
MAT  7,  1863. 

great  ring  the  Danish  barons  sat ; 


TNa 
^   TV. 


Their  bitter  hearts  were  cold  within  their 

breasts ; 

For  all  that  day  the  fortunes  of  the  fight 
Had  gone  against  them,  and  the  Saxon  axe 
Had  hewed  their  faces,  driving  them  perforce 
Back  to  their  moated  camp  beside  the  sea. 
So  in  the  evening,  one  by  one,  they  came,* 
Unsummoned,  to  the  presence  of  the  Prince 
For  further  counsel ;  though  no  word  as  yet 
Broke  the  dark  circle,  where  they  brooding  sat 
With  their  brown   chins   upon   their   sinewy 

hands. 


ERIC,   THE  MINSTREL.  91 

Much  they  bemoaned  their  lot  with  muffled 

groans, 
And  hard,   deep-chested  spasms  of  wordless 

pain ; 

And  many  an  eye  rolled  from  the  pile*d  arms 
To  the  small  harbor,  where  the  rocking  ships 
Flashed  their  long  spars  against  the  setting  sun, 
And  seemed  to  beckon  them  away.     Of  all 
Kagner,  the  Prince,  was  gloomiest.     His  eyes 
Were  dull  and  filmy,  as  a  slaughtered  wolfs, 
Turned  up  to  wither  in  the  staring  moon. 
His  grizzly  beard  hung  down  across  his  knees, 
So  low  he  bent,  and  his  great,  open  face 
Was  void  and  stagnant ;  not  a  ray  of  thought 
Glimmered  upon  it.     Had  not,  now  and  then, 
His  thick  breath  hissed  between  his  grinding 

teeth, 

Or  a  deep  groan  surged,  like  a  breaking  wave, 
Through  his  whole  form,  none  would  have  said 

he  lived. 


92  ERIC,   THE  MINSTREL. 

He  had  staked  all  upon  one  fatal  fight. 
Loud  had  he  boasted  of  his  strength  and  skill, 
His  men,  his  weapons,  and  his  discipline, 
That  bound  them  all  together  in  one  will. 
Much  had  he  sneered  at  other  chiefs,  whose 

deeds 

Had  failed  before  the  foe,  through  lack  of  wit ; 
Vaunting  himself,  and  stamping  on  their  wrecks. 
Was  this  the  issue  ?  —  this  sad,  woe-begone, 
Fear-stricken  huddle  of  disheartened  men  ? 
His  hopes  had  failed  him.    A  despised  foe, 
Famished,  half-clad,  unsandalled,  scantly  armed, 
With  torn  and  bleeding  hands  had  struck  his 

swords, 

His  cunning  engines  and  far-flying  shafts, 
Down  to  this  ruin  :  with  them,  too,  the  crown, 
Growing  in  fancy  o'er  his  princely  house. 
Ragner  said  naught ;  for  there  was  naught  to 

say, 
That  babbling  gossips  might  not  say  as  well, 


ERIC,   THE  MINSTREL.  93 

Years  hence,  above  the  embers.     So  he  turned 
His  brow  against  the  hide-walls  of  his  tent, 
And  almost  wept  for  shame.      The  curtains 
shook : 

A  face  as  brilliant  as  the  evening-star, 

• 

And  cheerful  as  an  angel's  that  has  looked, 
A  moment  since,  upon  the  light  of  heaven, 
Shone  steadily  above  that  darkened  group, 
And  drew  their  eyes  together  towards  its  beams. 
Eric,  the  minstrel,  entered  in  the  tent, 
And  softly  stepped  before  the  wretched  chiefs, 
With  the  bard's  license.     "  Ragner,"  he  began, 
"  And  you,  pale  comrades  of  his  misery, 
Is  this  a  time  for  weakness  ?  this  a  time 
To  drop  your  manhood,  and  to  change  your 

sex, 

Now  while  ye  need  a  double  share  of  strength, 
Of  skill  and  courage,  to  make  good  the  loss 
That  fell  upon  you  in  to-day's  mishap  ? 
Is  this  a  time  for  gloomy  brows,  dead  brains, 


94  ERIC,   THE  MINSTREL. 

Slack  hands  and  failing  hearts  ?    Is  this  a  time 
To  empty  memory  of  its  olden  stores, 
And  turn  your  backs  upon  your  history  ? 
Is  this  a  time  for  sheep  to  nibble  grass, 

And  fatten  for  the  butcher,  while  the  plain 

• 
Is  red  with  corpses,  only  fit  for  wolves 

And  the  swart  ravens'  talons  ?    If  there  was 
Ever  to  Danish  men  the  sudden  need 
Of  all  God's  best  endowments,  it  is  now. 
Rise,  or  your  lives  are  forfeit  for  your  sloth  !  " 
They  bounded  up,  as  if  they  felt  the  foe 
Already  hacking  at  their  cowering  backs, 
And  bent  their  glances  towards  the   distant 

ships, 

With  sullen  meaning.  "  Rise,  rise  higher  yet ! 
And  turn  your  faces  frowning  on  the  foe  ; 
Or  you  lose  more  than  life,  your  honor,  chiefs  ; 
The  fame  that  made  you,  when  yon  sun  arose, 
All  that  you  were."  Then,  with  a  feeble  groan, 
They  all  sank  down  upon  the  ground  again. 


ERIC,   THE  MINSTREL.  95 

Scorn  flashed  o'er  Eric's  features  a  hot  light, 
Like  that  which  pulses  in  the  summer  nights, 
Ruddy  and  frequent.     But  he  calmed  himself; 
And  with  a  sigh,  he  took  from  off  his  arm 
His  Norman  harp  ;  and  whispered  to  himself, 
In  tones  as  tender  as  his  mother  used, 
"  This  is  the  time  to  sing."     He  wound  his 

hands 

Round  the  long  wires,  and  every  warbling  string 
Flickered  before  him,  like  a  jet  of  flame 
That  leaps  along  the  darkness.     And  he  sang 
His  nation's  birth,  its  growing  infancy, 
Rocked  on  the  billows  in  long,  pointed  ships. 
And  then  he  sang  how  tribe  was  joined  to  tribe 
In  the  dark  forests,  falling  with  the  growth 
Of  gathered  people,  till  the  teeming  land 
Waved  yellow  grain,  and  smoked  with  forges. 

How 
The  streams  turned  round  upon  the  wheels  in 

foam, 


96  ERIC,   THE  MINSTREL. 

And  ground  and  hammered  slavishly  for  man. 
Then  he  struck  out  in  triumph  from  the  cords, 
And  raised  his  voice,  accordant  to  the  theme, 
The  glory  of  his  nation.     How  she  warred 
With   neighboring    powers,   and    spread   her 

tongue  and  laws, 
From  the  cramped  borders  where  her  strength 

was  nursed, 
Up  towards  the  ice,  and  downward  towards  the 

sun. 

The  sea  became  her  highway.     Here  and  there 
She  set  her  foot  upon  far  distant  shores, 
And  founded  other  nations.     On  the  name 
The  Norman  carried  to  the  Pyrenees, 
He  hung  in  rapture.     O'er  and  o'er  again 
He  sang  of  Charlemagne  and  all  his  peers ; 
Of  Roncesvalles,  and  of  Roland's  horn, 
Until  the  horn  seemed  peeling  in  their  ears  ; 
Or  sinking  fainter  with  the  hero's  breath, 
Lower  and  lower,  till  the  dismal  night 


ERIC,   THE  MINSTREL.  97 

Sank  down  and  settled  upon  Roland's  corse. 
Then  he  sang  other  fields,  of  happier  fate  ; 
Drawing  his  pictures  on  the  painted  air 
With  harp  and  voice,  as  plainly  to  the  sense 
As  any  since  have  wrought  with  tinted  brush  ; 
And  snorting  steeds  and  mail-clad  men,  in 

square, 

In  line,  in  column,  thundered  past  their  eyes  ; 
And  banners  waved,  and  lances  splintered  up 
On  ringing  shields  and  hauberks ;  till  there 

came 

The  serious  press,  at  arm's  length,  of  the  swords ; 
When  the  foe  paused,  shook,  wavered,  turned, 

and  fled, 

With  all  the  Norman  barons,  at  his  heels, 
Shouting  their  triumph  in  the  hot  pursuit. 
By  this,  the  chiefs  had  started  from  the  ground, 
With  the  grand  light  of  battle  flaming  out 
From  their  red  eyeballs  ;  and  outside  the  tent, 
A  murmur  circled  from  the  listening  host,  — 

5  Q 


98  ERIC,   THE  MINSTREL. 

A  murmur  ending  in  a  shrill,  wild  cheer, 
That  made  the  blood  fly  leaping  through  the 

veins, 

And  sent  the  right  hand  seeking  for  the  sword. 
Then  Eagner  strode  from  out  the  tent,  and  saw 
His  hurrying  soldiers  buckling  on  their  arms  ; 
And  heard  the  tested  bow-strings  snap  and 

twang, 

And  sheaves  of  arrows  rattling  as  they  swung ; 
And  all  the  sounds  a  forming  army  makes 
Came  up,  like  music,  to  his  wondering  ears. 
So  he  drew  forth  his  sword  amidst  his  chiefs, 
And  their  swords  followed.     Then  the  minstrel 

stole, 

Unthanked,  away,  to  weep  beside  his  harp, 
Dejected,  prayerful :  but  that  field  was  won. 


THE    BLACK    REGIMENT. 

POET  HUDSON,  MAT  27,  1863. 

DARK  as  the  clouds  of  even, 
Ranked  in  the  western  heaven, 
Waiting  the  breath  that  lifts 
All  the  dread  mass,  and  drifts 
Tempest  and  falling  brand 
Over  a  ruined  land  ;  — 
So  still  and  orderly, 
Arm  to  arm,  knee  to  knee, 
Waiting  the  great  event, 
Stands  the  black  regiment. 

Down  the  long  dusky  line 
Teeth  gleam  and  eyeballs  shine  ; 


100  THE  BLACK  REGIMENT. 

And  the  bright  bayonet, 
Bristling  and  firmly  set, 
Flashed  with  a  purpose  grand, 
Long  ere  the  sharp  command 
Of  the  fierce  rolling  drum 
•     Told  them  their  time  had  come, 
Told  them  what  work  was  sent 
For  the  black  regiment. 


"  Now,"  the  flag-sergeant  cried, 
"  Though  death  and  hell  betide, 
Let  the  whole  nation  see 
If  we  are  fit  to  be 
Free  in  this  land  ;  or  bound 
Down,  like  the  whining  hound,  - 
Bound  with  red  stripes  of  pain 
In  our  old  chains  again  !  " 
0,  what  a  shout  there  went 
From  the  black  regiment ! 


THE  BLACK  REGIMENT.  101 

"  Charge  !  "    Trump  and  drum  awoke, 
Onward  the  bondmen  broke  ; 
Bayonet  and  sabre-stroke 
Vainly  opposed  their  rush. 
Through  the  wild  battle's  crush, 
With  but  one  thought  aflush, 
Driving  their  lords  like  chaff, 
In  the  guns'  mouths  they  laugh ; 
Or  at  the  slippery  brands 
Leaping  with  open  hands, 
Down  they  tear  man  and  horse, 
Down  in  their  awful  course  ; 
Trampling  with  bloody  heel 
Over  the  crashing  steel, 
All  their  eyes  forward  bent, 
Rushed  the  black  regiment. 


"  Freedom  !  "  their  battle-cry,  — 
"  Freedom !  or  leave  to  die  !  " 


102  THE  BLACK  REGIMENT. 

Ah  !  and  they  meant  the  word, 
Not  as  with  us  'tis  heard, 
Not  a  mere  party  shout : 
They  gave. their  spirits  out ; 
Trusted  the  end  to  God, 
And  on  the  gory  sod 
Rolled  in  triumphant  blood. 
Glad  to  strike  one  free  blow, 
Whether  for  weal  or  woe  ; 
Glad  to  breathe  one  free  breath, 
Though  on  the  lips  of  death. 
Praying  —  alas  !  in  vain  !  — 
That  they  might  fall  again, 
So  they  could  once  more  see 
That  burst  to  liberty  ! 
This  was  what  "  freedom  "  lent 
To  the  black  regiment. 

Hundreds  on  hundreds  fell ; 
But  they  are  resting  well ; 


THE  BLACK  REGIMENT.  103 

Scourges  and  shackles  strong 
Never  shall  do  them  wrong. 
0,  to  the  living  few, 
Soldiers,  be  just  and  true  ! 
Hail  them  as  comrades  tried  ; 
Fight  with  them  side  by  side  ; 
Never,  in  field  or  tent, 
Scorn  the  black  regiment ! 


BEFORE    VICKSBURG. 

MAY  19,  1863. 

WHILE  Sherman  stood  beneath  the  hot 
test  fire, 

That  from  the  lines  of  Vicksburg  gleamed, 
And  bomb-shells  tumbled  in  their  smoky  gyre, 
And    grape-shot    hissed,    and    case-shot 

screamed ; 

Back  from  the  front  there  came, 
Weeping  and  sorely  lame, 
The  merest  child,  the  youngest  face 
Man  ever  saw  in  such  a  fearful  place. 

Stifling  his  tears,  he  limped  his  chief  to  meet ; 
But  when  he  paused,  and  tottering  stood, 


BEFORE   VICKSBURG.  105 

Around  the  circle  of  his  little  feet 
There  spread  a  pool  of  bright,  young  blood. 
Shocked  at  his  doleful  case, 
Sherman  cried,  "  Halt !  front  face  ! 
Who  are  you  ?  Speak,  my  gallant  boy !  " 
"  A  drummer,  sir :  —  Fifty-fifth  Illinois." 

"  Are  you  not  hit  ?  "    "  That 's  nothing.  Only 

send 

Some  cartridges :  our  men  are  out ; 
And  the  foe  press -us."       "But,  my   little 

friend—" 

"  Don't  mind- me  !   Did  you  hear  that  shout? 
What  if  our  men  be  driven  ? 
0,  for  the  love  of  Heaven, 
Send  to  my  Colonel,  General  dear !  " 
"  But  you  ? "     «  0, 1  shall  easily  find  the  rear." 

"  I  '11  see  to  that,"  cried  Sherman ;  and  a  drop, 
Angels  might  envy,  dimmed  his  eye, 


106  BEFORE   VICKSBURO. 

As  the  boy,  toiling  towards  the  hill's  hard  top, 
Turned  round,  and  with  his  shrill  child's  cry 
Shouted,  «  0,  don't  forget ! 
We  '11  win  the  battle  yet ! 
But  let  our  soldiers  have  some  more, 
More  cartridges,  sir,  —  calibre  fifty-four  !  " 


THE    BATTLE    OF    LOOKOUT 
MOUNTAIN. 

NOVEMBER  24,  1863. 

IYE  me  but  two  brigades,"  said  Hooker, 

frowning  at  fortified  Lookout ; 
"  And  I  '11  engage  to  sweep  yon  mountain  clear 

of  that  mocking  rebel  rout." 
At  early  morning  came  an  order,  that  set  the 

General's  face  aglow : 

"  Now,"  said  he  to  his  staff,  "  draw  out  my 
soldiers  !  Grant  says  that  I  may  go." 

Hither  and  thither  dashed  each  eager  Colonel, 

to  join  his  regiment,    "T 
While  a  low  rumor  of  the  daring  purpose  ran 

on  from  tent  to  tent. 


108  THE  BATTLE  OF 

For  the  long  roll  was  sounding  through  the 
valley,  and  the  keen  trumpet's  bray, 

And  the  wild  laughter  of  the  swarthy  veterans, 
who  cried,  "  We  fight  to-day  !  " 


The  solid  tramp  of  infantry,  the  rumble  of  the 

great  jolting  gun, 
The  sharp,  clear  order,  and  the  fierce  steeds 

neighing,  "Why 's  not  the  fight  begun  ?  " 
All  these  plain  harbingers  of  sudden  conflict 

broke  on  the  startled  ear  ; 
And  last  arose  a  sound  that  made  your  blood 

leap,  the  ringing  battle-cheer. 


The  lower  works  were  carried  at  one  onset ; 

like  a  vast  roaring  sea 
Of  steel  and  fire,  our  soldiers  from  the  trenches 

swept  out  the  enemy  ; 


LOOKOUT  MOUNTAIN.  109 

And  we  could  see  the  gray-coats  swarming  up 
from  the  mountain's  leafy  base, 

To  join  their  comrades  in  the  higher  fastness, — 
for  life  or  death  the  race ! 


Then  our  long  line  went  winding  up  the  moun 
tain,  in  a  huge  serpent-track, 

And  the  slant  sun  upon  it  flashed  and  glim 
mered  as  on  a  dragon's  back. 

Higher  and  higher  the  column's  head  pushed 
onward,  ere  the  rear  moved  a  man  ; 

And  soon  the  skirmish-lines  their  straggling 
volleys  and  single  shots  began. 


Then  the  bald  head  of  Lookout  flamed  and 
bellowed,  and  all  its  batteries  woke, 

And  down  the  mountain  poured  the  bomb-shells, 
puffing  into  our  eyes  their  smoke  ; 


110  THE  BATTLE  OF 

And  balls  and  grape-shot  rained  upon  our 
column,  that  bore  the  angry  shower 

As  if  it  were  no  more  than  that  soft  dropping 
which  scarcely  stirs  the  flower. 


0,  glorious  courage  that  inspires  the  hero,  and 

runs  through  all  his  men  ! 
The  heart  that  failed  beside  the  Rappahannock, 

it  was  itself  again  ! 
The  star  that  circumstance  and  jealous  faction 

shrouded  in  envious  night 
Here  shone  with  all  the  splendor  of  its  nature, 

and  with  a  freer  light ! 


Hark,  hark  !  there  go  the  well-known  crashing 
volleys,  the  long-continued  roar 

That  swells  and  falls,  but  never  ceases  wholly 
until  the  fight  is  o'er. 


LOOKOUT  MOUNTAIN. 

Up  towards  the  crystal  gates  of  heaven  ascend 
ing,  the  mortal  tempest  beat, 

As  if  they  sought  to  try  their  cause  together 
before  God's  very  feet. 

We  saw  our  troops  had  gained  a  footing  almost 
beneath  the  topmost  ledge, 

And  back  and  forth  the  rival  lines  went  surging 
upon  the  dizzy  edge. 

We  saw,  sometimes,  our  men  fall  backward 
slowly,  and  groaned  in  our  despair  ; 

Or  cheered  when  now  and  then  a  stricken  rebel 
plunged  out  in  open  air, 

Down,  down,  a  thousand  empty  fathoms  drop 
ping, —  his  God  alone  knows  where  ! 

At  eve  thick  haze  upon  the  mountain  gathered, 
with  rising  smoke  stained  black, 

And  not  a  glimpse  of  the  contending  armies 
shone  through  the  swirling  rack. 


112  THE  BATTLE  OF 

Night  fell  o'er  all ;  but  still  they  flashed  their 
lightnings  and  rolled  their  thunders  loud, 

Though  no  man  knew  upon  which  side  was 
going  that  battle  in  the  cloud. 


Night  —  what  a  night !  —  of  anxious  thought 
and  wonder,  but  still  no  tidings  came 

From  the  bare  summit  of  the  trembling  moun 
tain,  still  wrapped  in  mist  and  flame. 

But  towards  the  sleepless  dawn,  stillness,  more 
dreadful  than  the  fierce  sound  of  war, 

Settled  o'er  Nature,  as  if  she  stood  breathless 
before  the  morning  star. 


As  the  sun  rose,  dense  clouds  of  smoky  vapor 

4 
boiled  from  the  valley's  deeps, 

Dragging  their  torn  and  ragged  edges  slowly 
up  through  the  tree-clad  steeps  ; 


LOOKOUT  MOUNTAIN.  113 

And  rose  and  rose,  till  Lookout,  like  a  vision, 

above  us  grandly  stood, 
And  over  his  bleak  crags  and  storm-blanched 

headlands  burst  the  warm  golden  flood. 


Thousands  of  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  moun 
tain,  and  thousands  held  their  breath, 

And  the  vast  army,  in  the  valley  watching, 
seemed  touched  with  sudden  death. 

High  o'er  us  soared  great  Lookout,  robed  in 
purple,  a  glory  on  his  face, 

A  human  meaning  in  his  hard,  calm  features, 
beneath  that  heavenly  grace. 


Out  on  a  crag  walked  something  —  what  ?  an 
eagle,  that  treads  yon  giddy  height  ? 

Surely  no  man !  but  still  he  clambered  forward 
into  the  full,  rich  light. 


114  THE  BATTLE  OF 

Then  up  he  started,  with  a  sudden  motion,  and 
from  the  blazing  crag 

Flung  to  the  morning  breeze  and  sunny  radi 
ance  the  dear  old  starry  flag ! 

- 

Ah !  then  what  followed  ?  Scarred  and  war 
worn  soldiers,  like  girls,  flushed  through 
their  tan, 

And  down  the  thousand  wrinkles  of  the  battles 
a  thousand  tear-drops  ran. 

Men  seized  each  other  in  returned  embraces, 
and  sobbed  for  very  love ; 

A  spirit,  which  made  all  that  moment  brothers, 
seemed  falling  from  above. 


And  as  we  gazed,  around  the  mountain's  sum 
mit  our  glittering  files  appeared, 

Into  the  rebel  works  we  saw  them  moving ; 
and  we  —  we  cheered,  we  cheered  ! 


LOOKOUT  MOUNTAIN.  H5 

Arid  they  above  waved  all  their  flags  before  us, 

and  joined  our  frantic  shout, 
Standing,  like  demigods,  in  light  and  triumph 

upon  their  own  Lookout ! 


IN    THE    WILDERNESS. 

MAT  7,  1864. 

^> 

[The  incident  contained  in  the  following  poem  is  narrated  by  a 
correspondent  of  the  New  York  Tribune  in  a  letter  from  the 
battle-field,  dated  "  Wilderness,  May  7, 1864."] 

MANGLED,  uncared  for,  suffering  thro' 
the  night 
With  heavenly  patience  the  poor  boy  had 

0 

lain ; 

Under  the  dreary  shadows,  left  and  right, 
Groaned  on  the  wounded,  stiffened  out  the 

slain. 

What  faith  sustained  his  lone, 
Brave  heart  to  make  no  moan, 
To  send  no  cry  from  that  blood-sprinkled  sod, 
Is  a  close  mystery  with  him  and  God. 


IN  THE   WILDERNESS. 

But  when  the  light  caine,  and  the  morning  dew 

Glittered  around  him,  like  a  golden  lake, 
And  every  dripping  flower  with  deepened  hue 
Looked  through  its  tears  for  very  pity's  sake, 
He  moved  his  aching  head 
Upon  his  rugged  bed, 
And  smiled  as  a  blue  violet,  virgin-meek, 
Laid  her  pure  kiss  upon  his  withered  cheek. 

At  once  there  circled  in  his  waking  heart 
A  thousand  memories  of  distant  home  ; 

Of  how  those  same  blue  violets  would  start 
Along  his  native  fields,  and  some  would  roam 

Down  his  dear  humming  brooks, 
^      To  hide  in  secret  nooks,     ^ 

And,  shyly  met,  in  nodding  circles  swing, 

Like  gossips  murmuring  at  belated  Spring. 

And  then  he  thought  of  the  beloved  hands 
That  with  his  own  had  plucked  the  modest 
flower, 


118  IN  THE   WILDERNESS. 

The  blue-eyed  maiden,  crowned  with  golden 

bands, 

Who  ruled  as  sovereign  of  that  sunny  hour. 
She  at  whose  soft  command 
He  joined  the  mustering  band, 
She  for  whose  sake  he  lay  so  firm  and  still, 
Despite  his  pangs,  nor  questioned  then  her  will. 

So,  lost  in  thought,  scarce  conscious  of  the  deed, 
Culling  the  violets,  here  and  there  he  crept 
Slowly,  —  ah  !   slowly,  —  for  his  wound  would 

bleed ; 
And  the  sweet  flowers  themselves  half  smiled, 

half  wept, 

To  |^B  thus  gathered  in  + 

By  hands  so  pale  and  thin, 
By  fingers  trembling  as  they  neatly  laid 
Stem  upon  stem,  and  bound  them  in  a  braid. 

The  strangest  posy  ever  fashioned  yet          » 
"Was  clasped  against  the  bosom  of  the  lad, 


IN  THE   WILDERNESS.  H9 

As  we,  the  seekers  for  the  wounded,  set 

His  form  upon  our  shoulders  bowed  and  sad ; 

Though  he  but  seemed  to  think 

How  violets  nod  and  wink  ; 
And  as  we  cheered  him,  for  the  path  was  wild, 
He  only  looked  upon  his  flowers  and  smiled. 


ODE    TO    AMERICA. 

MARCH  7,  1862. 


N 


0  more  of  girls  and  wine, 

No  more  of  pastoral  joys, 
No  after-sighing  for  some  antique  line 
Of  bearded  kings,  who,  at  their  nation's  birth, 

As  children  play  with  toys, 
Made  merry  with  our  earth  : 
No  more,  no  more  of  these  ! 

The  girls  are  pale  ; 
The  wine  is  drunken  to  the  lees  ; 
Still  are  the  bleatings  of  the  woolly  fold  ; 
The  olden  kings  look  thin  and  cold, 
Like  dim  belated  ghosts 

That  hurrying  sail 
Towards  their  dark  graves, 


ODE   TO  AMERICA.  121 

Along  the  brightening  coasts, 
And  sapphire  hollows  of  the  crested  waves, 
Chased  by  the  golden  lances  hurled 
From  the  young  sun  above  his  cloudy  world. 

My  country,  let  me  turn  to  thee, 
With  love  and  pride  that  glow 
Pure  as  twin  altar-fires  which  blow 
Their  flames  together  to  one  Deity. 
Look  where  I  may, 
O  land  beneath  the  iron  sway 
Of  the  strong  hand  ;  — 
0  land  gored  through  and  through 
By  thy  own  faithless  brand ; 
Land  of  once  happy  homes. 

To  whose  now  darkened  doors 
The  hand  of  sorrow  comes, 

Early  and  late,  and  pours, 
With  no  soft  prelude,  or  no  warning  beat, 
Her  urn  of  bitter  tears  before  thy  feet ! 


122  ODE   TO  AMERICA. 

0  suffering,  patient  land, 
Thou  bearest  thy  awful  woe 

So  grandly,  with  such  high  command 
Of  tears,  that  dare  not  flow 

For  the  great  godlike  smile 

Which  crowns  thy  lips  the  while, 
And  stills  thy  mighty  heart  to  move 
As  calmly  on  as  when  the  hand  of  love 

Guided  thy  peaceful  realm, 
And  idly  swung  the  almost  useless  helm  ; 
That  I,  who,  in  my  erring  thought, 

Have  often  wronged  thy  fame, 

By  sneers  and  taunts  of  blame, 
Bow  down  with  penitence  o'erfraught, 

And  pangs  of  reverent  shame. 

Thy  rulers  put  aside  thy  rights  ; 

Thou  murmurest  not : 

They  waste  thy  gold  ; 
Still  thy  great  cause  is  not  forgot. 
Thy  ancient  foe  grows  loud,  and  bold 


ODE   TO  AMERICA.  123 

To  proffer  counsel,  jeers,  and  spurns  ; 

The  swaggering  coward  burns 
With  new-found  courage  ;  England  smites 

Thy  sensitive,  proud  cheek,  — 
Smites,  like  a  craven,  when  she  deems  thee 
weak  I 

Thy  pale,  stern  features  blush, 

Thy  passionate  arteries  gush 

"With  hot  rebellious  blood  : 
But  thou  stillest  the  raging  flood  ; 
Thou  seemest  to  listen,  in  a  patient  hush, 

To  the  audacious  kings, 

As  they  prattle  empty  things. 

Thy  pale,  stern  features  blush 
From  thy  heart  the  churl  is  spurned  ; 

But  thy  ready  sinews  pause, 

Remembering  thy  holy  cause, 
And  the  blow  is  not  returned  ! 

Not  yet,  not  yet !  0,  bear, 
As  the  lion  in  his  lair, 


124  ODE   TO  AMERICA. 

Whetting  his    teeth    and  gathering    all    his 

strength, 

Bears  the  insulting  cry 
Of  hunters  drawing  nigh 
The  dreadful  door  of  his  invaded  home  : 
Whence,  with  a  roar  and  bound,  at  length  — 
With  bristling  hair,  with  mane  that  rolls 
Above  his  fiery  eyes, 
Like  the  tumultuous  vapors  of  the  skies, 
Above  the  piercing  lightning  —  he  shall  come, 
The  lordly  beast,  whose  lifted  paw  controls 
The  fatal  ends  of  life,  and,  in  his  wrath, 
Sweep  from  his  onward  path 
The  awe-struck  phalanx  of  his  enemies  ! 
I  saw  thy  many  squadrons  file  and  form ; 
I  saw  them  driving  through  a  deadly  storm 
Of  shot  and  shell, 
Where  thousands  fell ; 
But  who  survived,  ah !  they,  indeed, 
Were  soldiers  true  ;  a  race  to  breed 


ODE   TO  AMERICA.  125 

Avenging  warriors,  ripening  for  the  day 
When  thou  shalt  cast  thy  shame  away. 
I  saw  thy  mail-clad  fleets,  whose  ponderous  arms 
Laugh  at  the  toys  of  Europe,  daily  grow 
By  stream  and  silent  lake. 
I  saw  them  glide  and  take 
The  sheltered  waters,  as  the  wild  swan  glides, 
With  scarce  a  ripple  at  their  moulded  sides, 

To  mar  the  current  in  its  onward  flow. 
Swiftly  they  gathered,  by  the  rising  walls 
Of  arme*d  ports  ; 

Hither  and  thither  at  prodigious  sports, 
To  try  their  watery  wings,  they  sped  ; 

Then    snuffed   a  welcome   from  the  briny 

breeze, 

And,  with  one  will,  away  they  fled 
To  join  their  dusky  sisters  of  the  seas  ! 
I  saw  it  all ;  and  bending  low, 
My  lips  against  thy  ear  I  set, 
With  "  Hist !  a  hope  begins  to  grow  ! 
Bear  on,  bear  on  !  Not  yet,  not  yet !  "' 


126  ODE   TO  AMERICA. 

0  glory  of  our  race, 

Long  suffering  guardian  of  the  free, 

Thou  who  canst  dare  to  be, 
For  a  great  purpose,  in  a  lowly  place  !  — 
Thou  who  canst  stretch  the  olive  o'er  the  wave, 
And  smite  the  master  of  the  slave, 
Yet  wisely  measure  all 
That  might  and  must  befall 
Ere  the  great  end  shall  crown  the  thing  to  be !  — 
How  shall  I  honor  thee  ? 
How  shall  I  fitly  speak, 
In  song  so  faint  and  weak, 
Of  majesty  and  wisdom  such  as  thine  ? 
For  now  the  scales,  so  long 
Held  on  the  side  of  wrong, 
To  thee  again  incline  ; 
And  thou  mayst  lift  thy  radiant  head, 
And  bind  thy  ring  of  re-appearing  stars 
About  thy  forehead,  and  forget  thy  scars 

In  joy  at  holding  that  for  which  they  bled  ! 


ODE   TO  AMERICA.  127 

Resume  thy  place,  unchallenged  now, 
Nor  bow  thy  glories  to  the  haughtiest  brow 

That  wears  a  royal  crown  ! 

False  prophets  scowled  thee  down, 
And  whispered  darkly  of  thy  coming  fate  : 

The  cause,  the  way,  the  date, 
They  wrote  for  thee  with  the  slow  augur's 
hand.  — 

Their  lies  were  scrawled  in  sand  ! 

They  perished  utterly ! 
What  is  the  splendor  of  the  diadem, 
The  gilded  throne,  the  broidered  carpekhem, 
The  purple  robe,  the  sceptre,  and  the  strain 

Of  foregone  kings,  whose  race 

Defies  the  herald's  trace, 
Before  thy  regal  steps  on  land  and  main  ? 

There  are  some  deeds  so  grand 

That  their  mighty  doers  stand 
Ennobled,  in  a  moment,  more  than  kings  ; 

And  such  deeds,  0  land  sublime, 

Need  no  sanctity  from  time  ; 


128  ODE   TO  AMERICA. 

Their  own  epoch  they  create, 

Whence  all  meaner  things  take  date  ; 
Then  exalt  thee,  for  such  noble  deeds  were 
thine ! 

Envy  nothing  born  of  earth, 

Kank  nor  wealth  nor  ancient  birth, 
Nor  the  glittering  sorrows  of  a  crown. 

0  Nation,  take  instead 

Thy  measureless  renown, 
To  wrap  thy  young  limbs  like  a  royal  stole, 

And  God's  own  flaming  aureole, 

To  settle  on  thy  head  ! 


QREMUS. 


WE  will  not  raise,  0  God,  the  formal  prayer 
Of  broken  heart  and  shattered  nerve  ; 
Thou  know'st  our  griefs,  our  wants,  and  what 
soe'er 
Is  best  for  those  who  serve. 

Before  Thy  feet,  in  silence  and  in  awe, 
We  open  lay  our  cause  and  need  : 

As  brave  men  may,  the  patriot  sword  we  draw, 
But  Thine  must  be  the  deed. 

We  have  no  pageantry  to  please  Thy  eye, 
Save  marshalled  men,  who  marching  come 

Beneath  Thy  gaze  in  arme*d  panoply  ; 
No  music  save  the  drum. 


130  OREMUS. 

We  have  no  altar,  builded  in  Thy  sight, 
From  which  the  fragrant  offerings  rise, 

Save  this  wide  field  of  hot  and  bloody  fight ; 
These  dead,  our  sacrifice. 

To  this  great  cause  the  force  of  prayer  is  given, 
The  wordless  prayer  of  righteous  will ; 

Before  whose  strength  the  ivory  gates  of  heaven 
Fall  open,  and  are  still. 

For  we  believe,  within  our  inmost  souls, 
That  what  men  do  with  spirit  sad 

To  Thee  in  one  vast  cloud  of  worship  rolls,  — 
Rolls  up,  and  makes  Thee  glad. 

0  God,  if  reason  may  presume  so  far, 
We  say  our  cause  is  also  Thine  ; 

We  read  its  truth  in  every  flashing  star, 
In  every  sacred  line. 


OREMUS.  131 

By  Thy  commission  freedom  first  was  sent, 
To  hold  the  tyrant's  force  at  bay  ; 

The  chain  that  broke  in  Egypt,  was  not  meant 
To  bind  our  shining  day. 

Freedom  to  all !  in  Thy  great  name  we  cry, 
And  lift  to  heaven  Thy  bloody  sword  ; 

Too  long  have  we  been  blind  in  heart  and  eye 
To  Thy  outspoken  word. 

Before  the  terrors  of  that  battle-call, 

As  flax  before  the  gusty  flame, 
Down,  down,  the  vanquished  enemy  shall  fall, 

Stricken  with  endless  shame  ! 

Here  let  division  cease.  Join  hand  with  hand, 
Join  voice  with  voice  ;  a  general  shout 

Shall,  like  a  whirlwind,  sweep  our  native  land, 
And  purge  the  traitors  out ! 


132  OREMUS. 

Fear  not  or  faint  not.     God,  who  ruleth  men, 
Marks  where  his  noble  martyrs  lie  : 

They  shall  all  rise  beneath  His  smile  again  ; 
His  foes  alone  shall  die. 


AD    POETAS. 

O  BROTHER  bards,  why  stand  ye  silent  all, 
Amidst  these  days  of  noble  strife, 
While  drum  and  fife  and  the  fierce  trumpet-call 
Awake  the  land  to  life  ? 

Now  is  the  time,  if  ever  time  there  was, 
To  strike  aloud  the  sounding  lyre, 

To  touch  the  heroes  of  our  holy  cause 
Heart-deep  with  ancient  fire. 

'T  is  not  for  all,  like  Norman  Taillefere, 

To  sing  before  the  warlike  horde 
Our  fathers'  glories,  the  great  trust  we  bear, 

And  strike  with  harp  and  sword. 


134  AD  POETAS. 

Nor  yet  to  frame  a  lay  whose  moving  rhyme 
Shall  flow  in  music  North  and  South, 

And  fill  with  passion,  till  the  end  of  time, 
The  nation's  choral  mouth. 


Yet  surely,  while  our  country  rocks  and  reels, 
Your  sweetly- warbled  olden  strains 

Would  mitigate  the  deadly  shock  she  feels, 
And  soothe  her  in  her  pains. 

Some  knight  of  old  romance,  in  full  career, 
Heard  o'er  his  head  the  skylark  sing, 

And,  pausing,  leaned  upon  his  bloody  spear, 
Lost  in  that  simple  thing. 

If  by  your  songs  no  heroes  shall  be  made 

To  look  death  boldly  eye  to  eye, 
They  may  glide  gently  to  the  martyr's  aid 

When  he  lies  down  to  die. 


AD  POETAS.  135 

And  many  a  soldier,  on  his  gory  bed, 
May  turn  himself,  with  lessened  pain, 

And  bless  you  for  the  tender  words  you  said, 
Now  singing  in  his  brain. 

So  ye,  who  hold  your  breath  amidst  the  fight, 

Be  to  your  sacred  calling  true  : 
Sing  on  !  the  far  result  is  not  in  sight 

Of  the  great  good  ye  do. 


THE    FLAG. 

SEPTEMBER  22,  1862. 

SPIRITS  of  patriots,  hail  in  heaven  again 
The  flag  for  which  ye  fought  and  died, 
Now  that  its  field,  washed  clear  of  every  stain, 
Floats  out  in  honest  pride  ! 

Free  blood  flows  through  its  scarlet  veins  once 
more, 

And  brighter  shine  its  silver  bars  ; 
A  deeper  blue  God's  ether  never  wore 

Amongst  the  golden  stars.  « 

See  how  our  earthly  constellation  gleams  ; 

And  backward,  flash  for  flash,  returns 
Its  heavenly  sisters  their  immortal  beams 

With  light  that  fires  and  burns,  — 


THE  FLAG.  137 

That  burns  because  a  moving  soul  is  there, 

A  living  force,  a  shaping  will, 
Whose  law  the  fate-forecasting  powers  of  air 

Acknowledge  and  fulfil. 

At  length  the  day,  by  prophets  seen  of  old, 
Flames  on  the  crimsoned  battle-blade  ; 

Henceforth,  0  flag,  no  mortal  bought  and  sold, 
Shall  crouch  beneath  thy  shade. 

That  shame  has  vanished  in  the  darkened  past, 

With  all  the  wild  chaotic  wrongs 
That  held  the  struggling  centuries  shackled  fast 

With  fear's  accursed  thongs. 

• 

Therefore,  0  patriot  fathers,  in  your  eyes 

I  brandish  thus  our  banner  pure  : 
Watch  o'er  us,  bless  us,  from  your  peaceful  skies, 
And  make  the  issue  sure  ! 


DRAGOON'S    SONG. 

CLASH,  clash  goes  the  sabre  against  my 
steed's  side, 

Kling,  kling  go  the  rowels,  as  onward  I  ride  ; 
And  all  my  bright  harness  is  living  and  speaks, 
And  under  my  horseshoes  the  frosty  ground 

creaks  ; 

I  wave  my  buff  glove  to  the  girl  whom  I  love, 
Then  join  my  dark  squadron,  and  forward  I 
move. 

The  foe,  all  secure,  has  lain  down  by  his  gun  ; 
I  '11  open  his  eyelids  before  the  bright  sun. 
I  burst  on  his  pickets  ;  they  scatter,  they  fly  ; 
Too  late  they  awaken,  —  't  is  only  to  die. 


DRAGOON'S  SONG.  139 

Now  the  torch  to  their  camp ;  I  '11  make  it  a 
lamp, 

As  back  to  my  quarters  so  slowly  I  tramp. 

9 

Kiss,  kiss  me,  my  darling  !  your  lover  is  here. 
Nay,  kiss  off  the  smoke-stains  ;  keep  back  that 

bright  tear  ; 
Keep  back  that  bright  tear  till  the  day  when  I 

come, 

To  the  low  wailing  fife  and  deep  muffled  drum, 
With  a  bullet  half  through  this  bosom  so  true, 
To  die,  as  I  ought,  for  my  country  and  you. 


LANCER'S    SONG. 

A  SIGH  to  the  lips  that  we  love  from  the 
heart, 

A  scowl  to  the  foe  that  is  moving  before  us  ; 
Then  mount,  slacken  reins,  and  spur  hard  for 

the  start, 

With  our  pennons  blown  out,  and  our  spears 
slanted  o'er  us ! 

Who  feels  not  his  spirit  mount  up  for  this  deed 
Is  a  wretch,  —  in  the  soul  of  our  souls  we 

abhor  him  ; 

May  he  fall,  like  a  dog,  in  the  path  of  his  steed, 
And  our  close  trampling  hoofs  in  a  torrent 
sweep  o'er  him ! 


LANCER'S  SONG.  141 

But  who  for  his  country  shall  fall  on  the  field, 
0  God,  take  his  soul,  if  thou  wilt  not  restore 

him ; 
Make  thy  presence  around  him  his  comfort  and 

shield, 

And  gather  thy  angels,  and  spread  their 
wings  o'er  him ! 

We  have  sighed  our  last  sigh,  we  have  prayed 

our  last  prayer : 

0  country,  the  best  of  the  life  that 's  before  us 
We  give  thee  ungrudging,  in  hope,  not  despair  ; 
And  we  ask  but  thy  tear  when  the  volley 
rings  o'er  us. 


CAVALRY  SONG. 

DRAW  your  girths  tight,  boys 
This  morning  we  ride, 
With  God  and  the  right,  boys, 
To  sanction  our  side, 
Where  the  balls  patter, 
Where  the  shot  shatter, 
Where  the  shells  scatter 
Ked  death  far  and  wide. 

Pause  not  to  think,  boys, 

Of  maidens  in  tears  ; 
Only  this  drink,  boys, 

Let 's  toss  to  our  dears  : 


CAVALRY  SONG.  143 

Then  0  for  the  battle, 
The  mad  charging  rattle, 
The  foam-snorting  cattle, 
The  victors'  wild  cheers  ! 

Look  to  your  arms,  boys, 

Your  friends  tried  and  true  : 
How  the  blood  warms,  boys  ! 
The  foe  is  in  view  ! 

Forward  !  break  cover  ! 
Ride  through  them  !  ride  over 
Them  !  baptize  the  clover 
With  blood  as  with  dew  ! 


MARCH    ALONG. 

SOLDIERS  are  we  from  the  mountain  and 
valley, 

Soldiers  are  we  from  the  hill  and  the  plain  ; 
Under  the  flag  of  our  fathers  we  rally ; 
Death,  for  its  sake,  is  but  living  again. 
Then  march  along,  gay  and  strong, 
March  to  battle  with  a  song ! 
March,  march  along ! 


We  have  a  history  told  of  our  nation, 
"We  have  a  name  that  must  never  go  down  ; 

Heroes  achieved  it  through  toil  and  privation  ; 
Bear  it  on,  bright  with  its  ancient  renown  ! 
Then  march  along,  etc. 


MARCH  ALONG.  145 

Who  that  shall  dare  say  the  flag  waving  o'er  us, 
Which  floated  in  glory  from  Texas  to  Maine, 

Must  fall,  where  our  ancestors  bore  it  before  us, 
Writes  his  own  fate  on  the  roll  of  the  slain. 
Then  march  along,  etc. 


Look  at  it,  traitors,  and  blush  to  behold  it ! 

Quail  as  it  flashes  its  stars  in  the  sun  ! 
Think  you  a  hand  in  the  nation  will  fold  it, 

While  there  's  a  hand  that  can  level  a  gun  ? 
Then  march  along,  etc. 


Carry  it  onward  till  victory  earn  it 
The  rights  it  once  owned  in  the  land  of  the 

free ; 

Then,  in  God's  name,  in  our  fury  we  '11  turn  it 
Full  on  the  treachery  over  the  sea  ! 
Then  march  along,  etc. 


146  MARCH  ALONG. 

England  shall  feel  what  a  vengeance  the  liar 
Stores  in  the  bosom  he  aims  to  deceive  ; 

England  shall  feel  how  God's  truth  can  inspire ; 
England  shall  feel  it,  but  only  to  grieve. 
Then  march  along,  etc. 


Peace  shall  unite  us  again  and  forever, 

Though  thousands  lie  cold  in  the  graves  of 

these  wars ; 
Those  who   survive  them  shall  never  prove, 

never, 

False  to  the  flag  of  the  stripes  and  the  stars ! 
Then  march  along,  gay  and  strong, 
March  to  battle  with  a  song ! 
March,  march  along ! 


THE    FREE    FLAG. 

JANUARY  1,  1863. 

OHOLY  ensign  !  symbol  fair 
And  unpolluted,  save  by  those 
Whose  crimes  have  made  themselves  thy  foes. 
Kiss  with  true  love  the  taintless  air  ! 
Lay  all  thy  starry  clusters  bare 

Beneath  the  heavenly  stars  ;  secure 
That,  as  their  own,  thy  light  is  pure  ! 

No  more  at  thee  the  world  shall  sneer ; 

No  more  beneath  thy  shade  shall  flash 

The  terrors  of  the  tyrant's  lash  ; 
Nor  a  whole  race  be  bowed  with  fear, 
As  widens  out  thy  grand  career  ; 


SONG 

FOR  THE    LOYAL  NATIONAL   LEAGUE    OF   NEW  YORK, 

ON  THE  ANNIVERSARY  OF  THE  ATTACK   ON 

FORT  SUMTER, 

APRIL    1  1,    1863. 

WHEN  our  banner  went  down, 
With  its  ancient  renown, 
Betrayed  and  degraded  by  treason, 
Did  they  think,  as  it  fell, 
What  a  passion  would  swell 
Our  hearts  when  we  asked  them  the  reason  ? 
0,  then,  rally,  brave  men, 
To  the  standard  again, 
The  flag  that  proclaims  us  a  nation  ! 
We  will  fight,  on  its  part, 
While  there  's  life  in  a  heart, 
And  then  trust  to  the  next  generation. 


SONG.  151 

Although  causeless  the  blow 
That  at  Sumter  laid  low 
That  flag,  it  was  seed  for  the  morrow  ; 
And  a  thousand  flags  flew, 
For  the  one  that  fell  true, 
As  traitors  have  found  to  their  sorrow. 
0,  then,  rally,  brave  men, 
To  the  standard  again, 
The  flag  that  proclaims  us  a  nation  ! 
We  will  fight,  on  its  part, 
While  there  's  life  in  a  heart, 
And  then  trust  to  the  next  generation. 


'T  was  in  flashes  of  flame 
It  was  brought  to  a  shame 

Till  then  unrecorded  in  story  ; 
But  in  flashes  as  bright 
It  shall  rise  in  our  sight, 

And  float  over  Sumter  in  glory  ! 


152  SONG. 

0,  then,  rally,  brave  men, 

To  the  standard  again, 
The  flag  that  proclaims  us  a  nation  ! 

We  will  fight,  on  its  part, 

While  there  's  life  in  a  heart, 
And  then  trust  to  the  next  generation, 


A    BATTLE    HYMN. 


OD,  to  Thee  we  humbly  bow, 

With  hand  unarmed  and  naked  brow ; 
sket,  lance,  and  sheathed  sword 
A^Thy  feet  we  lay,  O  Lord  ! 
is  all  the  soldier's  boast 
In  he  valor  of  the  host ; 
Kmling  here,  we  do  our  most. 


Of  oiteelves  we  nothing  know  : 
ThouVnd  Thou  alone,  canst  show, 
By  thkvor  of  Thy  hand, 
Who  h\  drawn  the  guilty  brand. 

7* 


152  SONG. 

0,  then,  rally,  brave  men, 

To  the  standard  again, 
The  flag  that  proclaims  us  a  nation  ! 

We  will  fight,  on  its  part, 

While  there  's  life  in  a  heart, 
And  then  trust  to  the  next  generation, 


A    BATTLE    HYMN. 

OD,  to  Thee  we  humbly  bow, 

With  hand  unarmed  and  naked  brow ; 
sket,  lance,  and  sheathe'd  sword 
A>  Thy  feet  we  lay,  O  Lord  ! 
is  all  the  soldier's  boast 
In  he  valor  of  the  host ; 
Kn  ling  here,  we  do  our  most. 

Of  oikelves  we  nothing  know  : 
ThouVnd  Thou  alone,  canst  show,    * 
By  thkvor  of  Thy  hand, 
Who  h\  drawn  the  guilty  brand. 


154  A  BATTLE  HYMN. 

If  our  foemen  have  the  right, 
Show  Thy  judgment  in  our  sight 
Through  the  fortunes  of  the  fight 


If  our  cause  be  pure  and  just, 
m  Nerve  our  courage  with  Thy  trust 
Scatter,  in  Thy  bitter  wrath, 
All  who  cross  the  nation's  path  : 
May  the  baffled  traitors  fly, 
As  the  vapors  from  the  sky 
When  Thy  raging  winds  are  high 

God  of  mercy,  some  must  fall 
In  Thy  holy  cause.     Not  all 
Hope  to  sing  the  victor's  lay, 
When  the  sword  is  laid  away. 
'Brief  will  be  the  prayers  theisaid  ; 
Falling  at  Thy  altar  dead, 
Take  the  sacrifice  instead  ! 


A   BATTLE  HYMN.  155 

Now,  0  God,  once  more  we  rise, 
Marching  on  beneath  Thy  eyes  ; 
And  we  draw  the  sacred  sword 
In  Thy  name  and  at  Thy  word. 
May  our  spirits  clearly  see 
Thee,  through  all  that  is  to  be, 
In  defeat  or  victory  ! 


HYMN 

FOR  THE  FOURTH  OF  JULY,    1863. 

LORD,  the  people  of  the  land 
In  Thy  presence  humbly  stand  ; 
On  this  day,  when  Thou  didst  free 
Men  of  old  from  tyranny, 
We,  their  children,  bow  to  Thee. 
Help  us,  Lord,  our  only  trust ! 
We  are  helpless,  we  are  dust ! 

All  our  homes  are  red  with  blood  ; 
Long  our  grief  we  have  withstood ; 
Every  lintel,  each  door-post, 


HYMN.  157 

Drips,  at  tidings  from  the  host, 
With  the  blood  of  some  one  lost. 

Help  us,  Lord,  our  only  trust ! 

We  are  helpless,  we  are  dust ! 

Comfort,  Lord,  the  grieving  one 
Who  bewails  a  stricken  son  ! 
Comfort,  Lord,  the  weeping  wife, 
In  her  long,  long  widowed  life, 
Brooding  o'er  the  fatal  strife  ! 

Help  us,  Lord,  our  only  trust ! 

We  are  helpless,  we  are  dust ! 

On  our  Nation's  day  of  birth, 
Bless  Thy  own  long-favored  earth ! 
Urge  the  soldier  with  Thy  will ! 
Aid  their  leaders  with  Thy  skill ! 
Let  them  hear  Thy  trumpet  thrill ! 

Help  us,  Lord,  our  only  trust ! 

We  are  helpless,  we  are  dust ! 


158  HYMN. 

Lord,  we  only  fight  for  peace, 
Fight  that  freedom  may  increase. 
Give  us  back  the  peace  of  old, 
When  the  land  with  plenty  rolled, 
And  our  banner  awed  the  bold  ! 

Help  us,  Lord,  our  only  trust ! 

We  are  helpless,  we  are  dust  ! 

Lest  we  pray  in  thoughtless  guilt, 
Shape  the  future  as  Thou  wilt ! 
Purge  our  realm  from  hoary  crime 
With  Thy  battles,  dread,  sublime, 
In  Thy  well-appointed  time  ! 

Help  us,  Lord,  our  only  trust ! 

We  are  helpless,  we  are  dust ! 

With  one  heart  the  Nation's  cries 
From  our  choral  lips  arise  : 
Thou  didst  point  a  noble  way 
For  our  Fathers  through  the  fray  ; 


HYMN.  159 

Lead  their  children  thus  to-day  ! 
Help  us,  Lord,  our  only  trust ! 

We  are  helpless,  we  are  dust ! 

* 

In  His  name,  who  bravely  bore 
Cross  and  crown  begemmed  with  gore  ; 
By  His  last  immortal  groan, 
Ere  He  mounted  to  His  throne, 
Make  our  sacred  cause  Thy  own  ! 

Help  us,  Lord,  our  only  trust ! 

We  are  helpless,  we  are  dust ! 


BLOOD,  blood  !    The  lines  of  every  printed 
sheet 
Through  their   dark  arteries   reek   with 

running  gore ; 
At  hearth,  at  board,  before  the  household 

door, 
JT  is  the  sole  subject  with  which  neighbors 

meet. 

Girls  at  the  feast,  and  children  in  the  street, 
Prattle  of  horrors  ;  flash  their  little  store 
Of  simple  jests  against  the  cannon's  roar,  , 
As  if  mere  slaughter  kept  existence  sweet. 
0,  heaven,  I  quail  at  the  familiar  way 

This  fool,  the  world,  disports  his  jingling 

cap; 
Murdering  or  dying  with  one  grin  agap  !, 


SONNET. 


Our  very  Love  comes  draggled  from  the  fray, 
Smiling  at  victory,  scowling  at  mishap, 
"With  gory  Death  companioned  and   at 
play. 


OH  !    craven,  craven  !    while  my  brothers 
fall, 

Like  grass  before  the  mower,  in  the  fight, 
I,  easy  vassal  to  my  own  delight, 
Am  bound  with  flowers,  a  far  too  willing 

thrall. 
Day  after  day  along  the  streets  I  crawl, 

Shamed  in  my  manhood,  reddening  at  the 

sight 

Of  every  soldier  who  upholds  the  right 
With  no  more  motive  than  his  country's 

call. 
I  love  thee  more  than  honor  ;  ay,  above 

That    simple  duty,  conscience-plain  and 

clear 

To  dullest  minds,  whose  summons  all  men 
hear. 


SONNET.  163 

Yet  as  I  blush  and  loiter,  who  should  move 
In  the  grand  marches,  I  cannot  but  fear 
That  thou  wilt  scorn  me  for  my  very  love. 


RAYE  comrade,  answer  !      When    you 


r> 

"*^  joined  the  war, 


What  left  you  ?     "  Wife   and  children, 

wealth  and  friends, 
A  storied  home  whose  ancient  roof-tree 

bends 
Above  such  thoughts  as  love  tells  o'er  and 

o'er." 

Had  you  no  pang  or  struggle  ?  "  Yes  ;  I  bore 
Such  pain  on  parting  as  at  hell's  gate  rends 
The  entering  soul,  when  from  its  grasp 

ascends 
The  last  faint  virtue  which  on  earth  it 

wore." 
You  loved  your  home,  your  kindred,  children, 

wife ; 


SONNET.  165 

You  loathed  yet  plunged  into  war's  bloody 

whirl !  — 
What  urged  you  ?    "  Duty  !     Something 

more  than  life. 
That  which  made  Abraham  bare  the  priestly 

knife, 
And  Isaac  kneel,  or  that  young  Hebrew 

girl 
Who  sought  her  father  coming  from  the 

strife." 


GRANT. 

AS  Moses  stood  upon  the  flaming  hill, 
With  all  the  people  gathered  at  his  feet, 
Waiting  in  Sinai's  valley,  there  to  meet 
The  awful  bearer  of  Jehovah's  will ; 
So,  Grant,  thou  stand'st,  amidst  the  trumpets 

shrill, 
And  the  wild  fiery  storms  that  flash  and 

beat 

In  iron  thunder  and  in  leaden  sleet, 
Topmost  of  all,  and  most  exposed  to  ill. 
0,  stand  thou  firm,  great  leader  of  our  race, 
Hope  of  our  future,  till  the  times  grow 

bland, 
And  into  ashes  drops  war's  dying  brand : 


GRANT.  167 

Then  let  us  see  thee,  with  benignant  grace, 
*bescend  thy  height,  God's  glory  on  thy 

face, 
And  the  law's  tables  safe  within  thy  hand ! 


DIRGE   FOR  A   SOLDIER. 

IN  MEMORY  OF  GENERAL  PHILIP  KEARNY. 
KILLED  SEPTEMBER  1,  1862. 

CLOSE  his  eyes  ;  his  work  is  done  ! 
What  to  him  is  friend  or  foeman, 
Else  of  moon,  or  set  of  sun, 

Hand  of  man,  or  kiss  of  woman  ? 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow  ! 
What  cares  he  ?  he  cannot  know : 
Lay  him  low ! 

As  man  may,  he  fought  his  fight, 
Proved  his  truth  by  his  endeavor  ; 


DIRGE  FOR  A   SOLDIER.  169 

Let  him  sleep  in  solemn  night, 
Sleep  forever  and  forever. 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow  ! 
What  cares  he  ?  he  cannot  know  : 
Lay  him  low ! 

Fold  him  in  his  country's  stars, 

Roll  the  drum  and  fire  the  volley  ! 
What  to  him  are  all  our  wars, 
What  but  death  bemocking  folly  ? 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow  ! 
What  cares  he  ?  he  cannot  know  : 
Lay  him  low  ! 

Leave  him  to  God's  watching  eye, 

Trust  him  to  the  hand  that  made  him. 

Mortal  love  weeps  idly  by  : 

God  alone  has  power  to  aid  him. 


170  DIRGE  FOR  A   SOLDIER. 

Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow  ! 
What  cares  he  ?  he  cannot  know  : 
Lay  him  low ! 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


PRINCE    ADEB. 

IN  Sana,  0,  in  Sana,  God,  the  Lord, 
Was  very  kind  and  merciful  to  me  ! 
Forth  from  the  Desert  in  my  rags  I  came, 
Weary  and  sore  of  foot.     I  saw  the  spires 
And  swelling  bubbles  of  the  golden  domes 
Rise  through  the  trees  of  Sana,  and  my  heart 
Grew  great  within  me  with  the  strength  of  God ; 
And  I  cried  out,  "  Now  shall  I  right  myself,  — 
I,  Adeb  the  despised,  —  for  God  is  just !  " 
There  he  who  wronged  my  father  dwelt  in 

peace,  — 

My  warlike  father,  who,  when  gray  hairs  crept 
Around  his  forehead,  as  on  Lebanon 
The  whitening  snows  of  winter,  was  betrayed 
To  the  sly  Imam,  and  his  tented  wealth 


174  PRINCE  ADEB. 

I 

Swept  from  him,  'twixt  the  roosting  of  the  cock 

And  his  first  crowing,  —  in  a  single  night : 
And  I,  poor  Adeb,  sole  of  all  my  race, 
Smeared  with  my  father's  and  my  kinsmen's 

blood, 

Fled  through  the  Desert,  till  one  day  a  tribe 
Of  hungry  Bedouins  found  me  in  the  sand, 
Half  mad  with  famine,  and  they  took  me  up, 
And  made  a  slave  of  me,  —  of  me,  a  prince  ! 
All  was  fulfilled  at  last.     I  fled  from  them, 
In  rags  and  sorrow.     Nothing  but  my  heart, 
Like  a  strong  swimmer,  bore  me  up  against 
The  howling  sea  of  my  adversity. 
At  length  o'er  Sana,  in  the  act  to  swoop, 
I  stood  like  a  young  eagle  on  a  crag. 
The  traveller  passed  me  with  suspicious  fear  : 
I  asked  for  nothing  ;  I  was  not  a  thief. 
The  lean  dogs  snuffed  around  me :  my  lank 

bones, 
Fed  on  the  berries  and  the  crusted  pools, 


PRINCE  ADEE.  175 

Were  a  scant  morsel.     Once,  a  brown-skinned 

girl 

Called  me  a  little  from  the  common  path, 
And  gave  me  figs  and  barley  in  a  bag. 
I  paid  her  with  a  kiss,  with  nothing  more, 
And  she  looked  glad  ;  for  I  was  beautiful, 
And  virgin  as  a  fountain,  and  as  cold. 
I  stretched  her  bounty,  pecking  like  a  bird, 
Her  figs  and  barley,  till  my  strength  returned. 
So  when  rich  Sana  lay  beneath  my  eyes, 
My  foot  was  as  the  leopard's,  and  my  hand 
As  heavy  as  the  lion's  brandished  paw  ; 
And  underneath  my  burnished  skin  the  veins 
And  stretching  muscles  played,  at  every  step, 
In  wondrous  motion.     I  was  very  strong. 
I  looked  upon  my  body,  as  a  bird 
That  bills  his  feathers  ere  he  takes  to  flight,  — 
I,  watching  over  Sana.     Then  I  prayed  ; 
And  on  a  soft  stone,  wetted  in  the  brook, 
Ground  my  long  knife  ;  and  then   I  prayed 

again. 


176  PRINCE  ADEB. 

God  heard  my  voice,  preparing  all  for  me, 
As,  softly  stepping  down  the  hills,  I  saw 
The  Imam's  summer-palace  all  ablaze 
In  the  last  flash  of  sunset.     Every  fount 
Was  spouting  fire,  and  all  the  orange-trees 
Bore  blazing  coals,  and  from  the  marble  walls 
And    gilded    spires    and   columns,   strangely 

wrought, 

Glared  the  red  light,  until  my  eyes  were  pained 
With  the  fierce  splendor.     Till  the  night  grew 

thick, 

I  lay  within  the  bushes,  next  the  door, 
Still  as  a  serpent,  as  invisible. 
The  guard  hung  round  the  portal.     Man  by 

man 

They  dropped  away,  save  one  lone  sentinel, 
And  on  his  eyes  God's  finger  lightly  fell ; 
He  slept  half  standing.     Like  a  summer  wind 
That  threads  the  grove,  yet  never  turns  a  leaf, 
I  stole  from  shadow  unto  shadow  forth ; 


PRINCE  ADEB.  177 

Crossed  all  the  marble  court-yard,  swung  the 

door, 

Like  a  soft  gust,  a  little  way  ajar,  — 
My  body's  narrow  width,  no  more,  —  and  stood 
Beneath  the  cresset  in  the  painted  hall. 
I  marvelled  at  the  riches  of  my  foe  ; 
I  marvelled  at  God's  ways  with  wicked  men. 
Then  I  reached  forth,  and  took  God's  waiting 

hand : 

And  so  He  led  me  over  mossy  floors, 
Flowered  with  the  silken  summer  of  Shiraz, 
Straight  to  the  Imam's  chamber.     At  the  door 
Stretched  a  brawn  eunuch,  blacker  than  my 

eyes : 

His  woolly  head  lay  like  the  Kaba-stone 
In  Mecca's  mosque,  as  silent  and  as  huge. 
I  stepped  across  it,  with  my  pointed  knife 
Just  missing  a  full  vein  along  his  neck, 
And,  pushing  by  the  curtains,  there  I  was  — 
I,  Adeb  the  despised  —  upon  the  spot 

8*  L 


178  PRINCE  ADEB. 

That,  next  to  heaven,  I  longed  for  most  of  all. 
I  could  have  shouted  for  the  joy  in  me. 
Fierce  pangs  and  flashes  of  bewildering  light 
Leaped  through  my  brain  and  danced  before 

my  eyes. 

So  loud  my  heart  beat,  that  I  feared  its  sound 
Would  wake  the  sleeper ;  and  the  bubbling 

blood 

Choked  in  my  throat,  till,  weaker  than  a  child, 
I  reeled  against  a  column,  and  there  hung 
In  a  blind  stupor.     Then  I  prayed  again  ; 
And,  sense  by  sense,  I  was  made  whole  once 

more. 

I  touched  myself;  I  was  the  same ;  I  knew 
Myself  to  be  lone  Adeb,  young  and  strong, 
With  nothing  but  a  stride  of  empty  air 
Between  me  and  God's  justice.     In  a  sleep, 
Thick  with  the  fumes  of  the  accursed  grape, 
Sprawled  the  false  Imam.      On  his   shaggy 

breast, 


PRINCE  ADEB.  179 

Like  a  white  lily  heaving  on  the  tide 
Of  some  foul  stream,  the  fairest  woman  slept 
These  roving  eyes  have  ever  looked  upon. 
Almost  a  child,  her  bosom  barely  showed 
The  change  beyond  her  girlhood.     All  her 

charms 

Were  budding,  but  half  opened  ;  for  I  saw 
Not  only  beauty  wondrous  in  itself, 
But  possibility  of  more  to  be 
In  the  full  process  of  her  blooming  days. 
I  gazed  upon  her,  and  my  heart  grew  soft, 
As  a  parched  pasture  with  the  dew  of  heaven. 
While  thus  I  gazed  she  smiled,  and  slowly  raised 
The  long  curve  of  her  lashes  ;  and  we  looked 
Each  upon  each  in  wonder,  not  alarm,  — 
Not  eye  to  eye,  but  soul  to  soul,  we  held 
Each  other  for  a  moment.     All  her  life 
Seemed  centred  in  the  circle  of  her  eyes. 
She  stirred  no  limb  ;  her  long-drawn,  equal 

breath 


180  PRINCE  ADEB. 

Swelled  out  and  ebbed  away  beneath  her  breast, 
In  calm  unbroken.    Not  a  sign  of  fear 
Touched  the  faint  color  on  her  oval  cheek, 
Or  pinched  the  arches  of  her  tender  mouth. 
She  took  me  for  a  vision,  and  she  lay 
With  her  sleep's  smile  unaltered,  as  in  doubt 
Whether  real  life  had  stolen  into  her  dreams, 
Or  dreaming  stretched  into  her  outer  life. 
I  was  not  graceless  to  a  woman's  eyes. 
The  girls  of  Damar  paused  to  see  me  pass, 
I  walking  in  my  rags,  yet  beautiful. 
One  maiden  said,  "  He  has  a  prince's  air  !  " 
I  am  a  prince  ;  the  air  was  all  my  own. 
So  thought  the  lily  on  the  Imam's  breast ; 
And  lightly  as  a  summer  mist,  that  lifts 
Before  the  morning,  so  she  floated  up, 
Without  a  sound  or  rustle  of  a  robe, 
From  her  coarse  pillow,  and  before  me  stood 
With  asking  eyes.     The  Imam  never  moved. 
A  stride  and  blow  were  all  my  need,  and  they 


PRINCE  ADEB.  181 

"Were  wholly  in  my  power.     I  took  her  hand, 
I  held  a  warning  finger  to  my  lips, 
And  whispered  in  her  small,  expectant  ear, 
"  Adeb,  the  son  of  Akem  !  "     She  replied 
In  a  low  murmur,  whose  bewildering  sound 
Almost  lulled  wakeful  me  to  sleep,  and  sealed 
The  sleeper's  lids  in  tenfold  slumber,  "  Prince, 
Lord  of  the  Imam's  life  and  of  my  heart, 
Take  all  thou  seest,  —  it  is  thy  right,  I  know,  — 
But  spare  the  Imam  for  thy  own  soul's  sake  !  " 
Then  I  arrayed  me  in  a  robe  of  state, 
Shining  with  gold  and  jewels  ;  and  I  bound 
In  my  long    turban  gems  that  might  have 

bought 

The  lands  'twixt  Babelmandeb  and  Sahan. 
I  girt  about  me,  with  a  blazing  belt, 
A  scimitar  o'er  which  the  sweating  smiths 
In  far  Damascus  hammered  for  long  years, 
Whose  hilt  and  scabbard  shot  a  trembling  light 
From  diamonds  and  rubies.    And  she  smiled, 


182  PRINCE  ADEB. 

As  piece  by  piece  I  put  the  treasures  on, 
To  see  me  look  so  fair,  —  in  pride  she  smiled. 
I  hung  long  purses  at  my  side.    I  scooped, 
From  off  a  table,  figs  and  dates  and  rice, 
And  bound  them  to  my  girdle  in  a  sack. 
Then  over  all  I  flung  a  snowy  cloak, 
And  beckoned  to  the  maiden.     So  she  stole 
Forth  like  my  shadow,  past  the  sleeping  wolf 
Who  wronged  my  father,  o'er  the  woolly  head 
Of  the  swart  eunuch,  down  the  painted  court, 
And  by  the  sentinel  who  standing  slept. 
Strongly  against  the  portal,  through  my  rags,  — 
My  old  base  rags,  —  and  through  the  maiden's 

veil, 

I  pressed  my  knife,  —  upon  the  wooden  hilt 
Was  "  Adeb,  son  of  Akem,"  carved  by  me 
In  my  long  slavehood,  —  as  a  passing  sign 
To  wait  the  Imam's  waking.     Shadows  cast 
From  two  high-sailing  clouds  upon  the  sand 
Passed  not  more  noiseless  than  we  two,  as  one, 


PRINCE  ADEB.  183 

Glided  beneath  the  moonlight,  till  I  smelt 
The  fragrance  of  the  stables.     As  I  slid 
The  wide  doors  open,  with  a  sudden  bound 
Uprose  the  startled  horses  ;  but  they  stood 
Still  as  the  man  who  in  a  foreign  land 
Hears  his  strange  language,  when  my  Desert  call, 
As  low  and  plaintive  as  the  nested  dove's, 
Fell  on  their  listening  ears.     From  stall  to  stall, 
Feeling  the  horses  with  my  groping  hands, 
I  crept  in  darkness  ;  and  at  length  I  came 
Upon  two  sister  mares  whose  rounded  sides, 
Fine  muzzles,  and  small  heads,  and  pointed 

ears, 
And  foreheads  spreading  'twixt  their  eyelids 

wide, 

Long  slender  tails,  thin  manes,  and  coats  of  silk, 
Told  me,  that,  of  the  hundred  steeds  there 

stalled, 

My  hand  was  on  the  treasures.     O'er  and  o'er 
I  felt  their  bony  joints,  and  down  their  legs 


184  PRINCE  ADEB. 

To  the  cool  hoofs ;  —  no  blemish  anywhere  : 
These  I  led  forth  and  saddled.     Upon  one 
I  set  the  lily,  gathered  now  for  me,  — 
My  own,  henceforth,  forever.     So  we  rode 
Across  the  grass,  beside  the  stony  path, 
Until  we  gained  the  highway  that  is  lost, 
Leading  from  Sana,  in  the  eastern  sands : 
When,  with  a  cry  that  both  the  Desert-born 
Knew  without  hint  from  whip  or  goading  spur, 
We  dashed  into  a  gallop.    Far  behind 
In  sparks  and  smoke  the  dusty  highway  rose  ; 
And  ever  on  the  maiden's  face  I  saw, 
When  the  moon  flashed  upon  it,  the  strange 

smile 

It  wore  on  waking.     Once  I  kissed  her  mouth, 
When  she  grew  weary,  and  her  strength  re 
turned. 
All  through  the  night  we  scoured  between  the 

hills : 
The  moon  went  down  behind  us,  and  the  stars 


PRINCE  ADEB.  185 

Dropped  after  her ;  but  long  before  1  saw 
A  planet  blazing  straight  against  our  eyes, 
The  road  had  softened,  and  the  shadowy  hills 
Had  flattened  out,  and  I  could  hear  the  hiss 
Of   sand    spurned  backward  by    the    flying 

mares.  — 

Glory  to  God  !     I  was  at  home  again  ! 
The  sun  rose  on  us  ;  far  and  near  I  saw 
The  level  Desert ;  sky  met  sand  all  round. 
We  paused  at  mid-day  by  a  palm-crowned  well, 
And  ate  and  slumbered.     Somewhat,  too,  was 

said: 
The  words  have  slipped  my  memory.    That 

same  eve 

We  rode  sedately  through  a  Hamoum  camp, — 
I,  Adeb,  prince  amongst  them,  and  my  bride. 
And  ever  since  amongst  them  I  have  ridden, 
A  head  and  shoulders  taller  than  the  best ; 
And  ever  since  my  days  have  been  of  gold, 
My  nights  have  been  of  silver,  —  God  is  just ! 


AEON'S    CHARITY. 

POOR,  very  poor  had  Abon  Hassen  grown  ; 
Of  all  the  wealth  his  fathers  called  their 

own 

To  him  remained  two  sequins.     These  he  gave 
To  a  low  wretch,  a  miserable  knave  ; 
As  full  of  sin  and  falsehood  as  the  brain 
Of  the  big-eared  and  red-faced  rogue,  whose 

gain 
Grew  from  long  tables,  heaped  with  bills  and 

gold, 
Beneath  whose  shade  the  loathsome  beggar 

rolled, 

And  whined  for  alms,  to  every  passer-by, 
In  Allah's  name.    Young  Abon's  tender  eye 


ABORTS  CHARITY.  187 

Shone,  like  the  morning  sun,  upon  the  place 
Where  lay  the  beggar ;  and  a  regal  grace 
Crowned  his  fair  forehead,  as  he  quickly  cast 
His  sequins  down,  and,  blushing,  onward  passed, 
With  "  Take  them,  then,  in  Allah's  holy  name : 
Thy  greater  need,  poor  soul,  puts  mine  to 

shame ! " 

The  youth  passed  quickly ;  but  the  lying  tongue 
Of  the  vile  wretch  pursued,  and  round  him  rung 
The  old,  stale  blessings  that  for  years  had  paid 
Such  simple  victims,  glib  words  of  his  trade ; 
As  bare  of  meaning,  in  their  prayers  and  praise, 
As  to  the  parrot  is  the  parrot's  phrase. 
But  Abon  paused,  as  if  the  seventh  heaven 
Before  his  eyes  its  ivory  gates  had  riven  ; 
Paused  with  a  strange,  sweet  warmth  about  his 

heart, 

With  music  in  his  ears,  and  far  apart 
From  this  rough  world  one  moment  he  was 

caught, 


188  AEON'S  CHARITY. 

Beyond  the  bounds  of  sense  or  farthest  thought, 

Into  the  depths  of  an  ecstatic  trance  ; 

And  there  he  reeled  till  rapture  verged  on  pain. 

Then  slid  he  gently  from  that  eminence ; 

And  Abon  whispered,  as  he  woke  again, 

"  Surely  the  hand  of  Allah  touched  me  then  !  " 

Out  of  the  distance  suddenly  arose 
A  cry  of  terror  ;  then  the  rapid  blows 
Of  flying  hoofs,  along  the  stony  way, 
Broke  on  his  ears.    The  crowd,  in  pale  dismay, 
Pressed  back  against  the  houses,  leaving  clear 
The  middle  street ;  down  which,  in  mad  career, 
A  furious  horse,  whose  meteor  mane  and  tail 
Blew  straight  behind  him,  on  the  roaring  gale 
Of  his  own  speed,  rushed  headlong.    And  there 

clung 

To  the  wild  steed  a  form  that  toppling  swung 
Hither  and  thither  in  his  giddy  seat, 
Helpless  and  failing.     An  old  man,  more  meet 


ABOWS   CHARITY.  189 

For  propping  cushions  on  the  soft  divan, 
Than  that  fierce  throne,  was  he.    No  venturous 

man, 

Of  all  the  throng,  essayed  to  stop  the  course 
Of  the  swift  steed.    Now  Abon  knew  a  horse 
As  well  as  one  may  know  his  own  right  hand. 
No  breed  or  cross  betwixt  the  sea  and  sand, 
Syrian  or  Arab,  but  young  Abon  knew  ; 
And  all  their  points  of  difference  could  view 
In  one  quick  glance.     So  Abon,  without  heed 
Or  thought  of  danger,  towards  the  maddened 

steed 
Sprang,  as  the  leopard  bounds,  and  caught  the 

bit. 

Borne  from  his  feet  an  instant,  he  alit 
With  his  firm  hand  still  on  the  golden  shank 
Of  the  long  curb  ;  till  on  his  haunches  sank 
The  astonished  horse,  wide-eyed,  subdued  to 

naught. 
Then  from  the  saddle  agile  Abon  caught 


190  AEON'S  CHARITY. 

A  mass  of  silks  and  jewels,  falling  prone 

On  his  strong  breast ;  and  he  who  filled  the 

throne 

Of  fair  Damascus,  without  scratch  or  harm, 
Lay  safely  panting  upon  Abon's  arm. 

When  Abon  Hassen,  whom  men  call  "  the 

good," 

Years  after,  the  Pasha,  in  counsel  stood 
With  holy  men  before  the  mosque  he  raised 
To  hold  his  master's  bones ;  and  Osman  praised 
The  glories  of  the  temple  ;  Abon  told 
The  story  of  the  beggar  and  the  gold, 
The  trance,  the  flying  horse ;    and   how  he 

stepped, 

Watching  the  kingdom  while  his  master  slept, 
Through  actions  spotless  in  the  people's  sight, 
By  slow  advances  to  his  princely  height ;  — 
Said  Osman,  holiest  of  the  holy  men, 
"  Surely  the  hand  of  Allah  touched  thee  then ! " 


IDLENESS. 

IF  I  do  no  more  than  this, 
I  do  something  grand,  I  wis. 
If  I  do  no  more  than  slumber 
Where  these  locust-blossoms  cumber 
The  young  grass,  while  in  and  out 
Voyage  the  humming  bees  about ; 
And  the  fields  of  new-turned  land, 
In  long  brown  waves  on  every  hand, 
Mix  their  strong  life-giving  smell 
With  the  violets  of  the  dell, 
Till  I,  half  drunk  with  country  gladness, 
Forget  the  moody  city-sadness ;  — 

If  I  do  no  more  than  gaze, 
Through  the  flimsy  spring-tide  haze, 


192  IDLENESS. 

Far  into  the  sapphire  deeps, 

Where  white  cloud  after  white  cloud  creeps  ; 

Or  watch  the  triumph  of  the  sun, 

When  his  western  stand  is  won, 

And  crimson  stain  and  golden  bar 

Are  drawn  across  the  evening-star  ; 

And  slowly  broaden  on  my  sight 

The  glories  of  the  deeper  night, 

Till  I,  o'ertaken  with  boding  sorrow, 

Shrink  from  inevitable  to-morrow ;  — 


If  I  do  no  more  than  look 
Into  that  dark  and  awful  book 
Which,  like  a  prophet's  fatal  scroll, 
Lies  open  in  my  deathless  soul  ; 
Whose  pictured  joy  and  pictured  woe 
Mean  more  than  any  man  may  know ; 
Close  secret,  hidden  in  death  and  birth, 
Keflex  and  prophecy  of  earth ; 


IDLENESS.  ^        193 

With  earth's  sweet  sounds  and  scented  blooms, 

Its  splendors  and  its  solemn  glooms, 

All  things  the  senses  care  about, 

As  clear  within  us  as  without ; 

As  if  from  us  creation  grew 

In  some  strange  way,  we  one  time  knew  :  — 

If  I  do  no  more  than  this, 

I  do  something  grand,  I  wis. 


WINTER    WINDS. 

O  WINTER  winds,  your  mournful  roar 
Is  burden  of  the  song  I  sing  ; 
An  everlasting  dirge  ye  pour, 
A  restless  pain  that  beats  the  door 
Of  heaven  with  its  wounded  wing. 

Grief  has  no  faith ;  the  common  woe 
That  sees  a  future  hope  unfold, 

Draws  comfort  thence  ;  but  as  ye  blow, 

O  winter  winds,  a  grief  I  know 

That  cannot,  would  not  be  consoled. 

Ye  wail  o'er  earth  left  desolate, 
O'er  beauty  stricken  with  decay  ; 


WINTER   WINDS.  195 

Ye  howl  behind  the  path  of  fate, 
Deaf  to  the  voice  that  bids  you  wait, 
Ye  cry  for  what  has  passed  away. 

I 

And  I  who  stand  with  drooping  eyes, 

"What  heart  have  I  to  rise  and  greet 
The  beckoning  hopes,  that  dimly  rise, 
While  all  I  loved  and  trusted  lies 
In  ashes  at  my  faltering  feet  ? 

0  winter  winds,  add  moan  to  moan  ! 

For  though  ye  give  me  no  relief, 
Ye  sound  a  fitting  undertone, 
A  dreary  note  whose  heavy  drone 

Keeps  measure  with  my  shriller  grief. 


ELISHA    KENT    KANE. 

• 

FEBRUARY  27,  1857. 

O  MOTHER  Earth,  thy  task  is  done 
With  him  who  slumbers  here  below ; 
From  thy  cold  Arctic  brow  he  won 
A  glory  purer  than  thy  snow. 

Thy  warmer  bosom  gently  nursed 

The  dying  hero  ;  for  his  eye 
The  tropic  Spring's  full  splendors  burst,  — 

"  In  vain  !  "  a  thousand  voices  cry. 

"  In  vain,  in  vain  !  "     The  poet's  art 
Forsook  me  when  the  people  cried  ; 

Naught  but  the  grief  that  fills  my  heart, 
And  memories  of  my  friend,  abide. 


ELISHA  KENT  KANE.  197 

We  parted  in  the  midnight  street, 

Beneath  a  cold  autumnal  rain  ; 
He  wrung  my  hand,  he  stayed  my  feet 

With  "Friend,  we  shall  not  meet  again." 

I  laughed  ;  I  would  not  then  believe  ; 

He  smiled  ;  he  left  me  ;  all  was  o'er. 
How  much  for  my  poor  laugh  I  'd  give  !  — 

How  much  to  see  him  smile  once  more  ! 


I  know  my  lay  bemeans  the  dead, 
That  sorrow  is  an  humble  thing, 

That  I  should  sing  his  praise  instead, 
And  strike  it  on  a  higher  string. 

Let  stronger  minstrels  raise  their  lay, 

And  follow  where  his  fame  has  flown ; 

• 

To  the  whole  world  belongs  his  praise, 
His  friendship  was  to  me  alone. 


198  ELISHA  KENT  KANE. 

So  close  against  my  heart  he  lay, 
That  I  should  make  his  glory  dim, 

And  hear  a  bashful  whisper  say, 
"  I  praise  myself  in  praising  him." 

0  gentle  mother,  following  nigh 

His  long,  long  funeral  march,  resign 

To  me  the  right  to  lift  this  cry, 
And  part  the  sorrow  that  is  thine. 

O  father,  mourning  by  his  bier, 
Forgive  this  song  of  little  worth  ! 

My  eloquence  is  but  a  tear, 

I  cannot,  would  not  rise  from  earth. 

0  stricken  brothers,  broken  band,  — 
The  link  that  held  the  jewel  lost,  — 

1  pray  you  give  me  leave  to  stand 
Amid  you,  from  the  sorrowing  host. 


ELISHA  KENT  KANE.  199 

We  '11  give  his  honors  to  the  world, 
We  '11  hark  for  echoes  from  afar ; 

Where'er  our  country's  flag  's  unfurled 
His  name  shall  shine  in  every  star. 

We  feel  no  fear  that  time  sjaall  keep 
Our  hero's  memory.     Let  us  move 

A  little  from  the  world  to  weep, 
And  for  our  portion  take  his  love. 


DIRGE. 

A.  W.    NOVEMBER  20,  1863. 

ANNIE 'S  dead,  Annie  's  dead  ! 
In  that  sentence  all  is  said. 
Lily  form  and  rosy  head, 
Still  and  cold,  yet  half  divine  ; 
Though  the  lights  no  longer  shine 
Whence  her  gentle  soul  looked  through 
Its  clear  essence,  calmly  true  : 
Ah  !  the  solemn  inward  view 
Those  inverted  eyeballs  cast, 
Ere  her  spirit  heavenward  passed  ! 
Annie  's  dead ! 

Annie  's  dead,  Annie  's  dead  ! 
Sister  angels,  overhead, 
Have  your  greeting  hands  outspread  ; 


DIRGE.  201 


Let  a  welcome  cry  be  given, 
As  she  treads  the  skirts  of  heaven  ; 
For  a  soul  from  earth  more  free, 
More  of  your  own  purity, 
Never  joined  your  company. 
Match  her  ye  of  heavenly  mould, 
Even  thus,  thus  mortal  cold  ! 
Annie  's  dead ! 

Annie  's  dead,  Annie  's  dead  ! 
Why  should  this  be  oversaid  ? 
Why  should  I  abase  my  head  ?  — 
I  who  loved  her  from  afar, 
As  the  dreamer  may  the  star  ; 
I  who  bowed  my  humble  eye, 
Scarcely  bold  enough  to  sigh, 
When  she  chanced  to  pass  me  by  ; 
Trembling  lest  a  word  might  stir 
The  high  calm  that  reigned  in  her. 
Annie  's  dead ! 


202  DIRGE. 

Annio  's  dead,  Annie  's  dead  ! 
But  a  gleam  of  light  hath  sped 
Through  death's  shadow  close  and  dread  ; 
For  wherever  such  as  thou 
Wanderest,  must  be  sunshine  now. 
Dweller  of  some  aery  isle, 
Floating  up  to  God  the  while, 
If  I  read  aright  that  smile  ; 
Hear  aright  my  heart  that  saith, 
"  Shall  I  faU  in  love  with  death  ?  " 
Annie  's  dead  ! 


THE  END. 


Cambridge  :  Stereotyped  and  Printed  by  Welch,  Bigelow,  &  Co. 


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